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LETTERS  OF  A  CANADIAN 
STRETCHER  BEARER 


LETTERS  OF  A  CANADIAN 
STRETCHER  BEARER 


BY 

R.  A.  L. 

EDITED   BY 

ANNA  CHAPIN  RAY 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

iai8 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  January,  1918 


Jforfoooo  $rta» 

Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Cushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 

Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


P  A"" 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

For  military  reasons,  it  has  been  judged  wiser 
to  withhold  the  full  name  of  the  Canadian 
Stretcher  Bearer  until  the  close  of  the  war. 

However,  it  may  interest  his  readers  to  know 
that  he  is  an  Old  Country-man,  although  he  is 
now  in  the  Canadian  Expeditionary  Force,  and 
earlier  had  lived  in  the  States.  On  the  31st 
May,  1915,  he  enlisted.  Six  weeks  later,  with 
the  earliest  of  our  letters,  we  find  him  in  England, 
and  rebelling  against  the  unsatisfactory  nature 
of  service  in  what  he  caustically  terms  a  Safety- 
First  battalion.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  time, 
however,  before  he  caused  himself  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  hospital  service,  crossing  to  France  to 
take  a  place  as  orderly  in  No.  3  Canadian  General 
Hospital  at  Boulogne,  where  he  arrived  early  in 

1916.  From  that  time  on  until  the  23rd  August, 

1917,  when  he  was  gassed  and  sent  to  Blighty, 
the  story  has  been  left  entirely  in  his  own  hands, 
to  tell  it  as  convincingly  as  may  be. 

Since  then,  he  has  been,  first  in  hospital  in 
England,  then  in  the  First  Reserve  Battalion, 
awaiting  the  call  back  to  service  in  the  trenches. 


vi  EDITOR'S  NOTE 

This  call,  however,  is  sounding  fainter  and  more 
remote.  A  cable  has  been  received,  this  morning, 
saying  that  he  is  being  sent  back  to  Canada,  his 
active  service  at  an  end. 

Ottawa, 

Fifth  December, 

Nineteen  Seventeen. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Editor's  Note     .        ......  v 

I    Blighty   i 1 

II    At  the  Base 31 

III  Up  the  Line 85 

IV  In  the  Trenches 155 

V    A  Nice  Soft  Blighty 275 

Epilogue 289 


I 

BLIGHTY 


i     \ 


LETTERS  OF  A  CANADIAN 
STRETCHER  BEARER 


BLIGHTY 

Shorncliffe,  Kent,  England, 
July,  1915. 
Lai  dearest,  — 

I  want  to  keep  writing  letters  that  will  give 
you  real  impressions.  I  mean  impressions  that 
will  convey  the  exact  condition  over  here,  because 
conditions  here  are  not  even  faintly  similar  to 
anything  you  and  I  have  seen  together.  It  is 
difficult  however,  —  not  only  getting  the  exact 
impressions,  but  getting  them  down  on  paper. 
I  am  writing  this  on  a  doubtful  table  laden  with 
cheap  "pots"  (pardon,  dishes),  surrounded  by 
a  very  hungry  crowd  waiting  for  the  dinner  call. 
Writing  is  hard,  but  I'll  do  my  best. 

To  go  'way  back.  We  only  learned  recently 
how  near  we  came  to  being  torpedoed.  It  was 
very  near  —  about  a  mile,  to  be  exact.  I  re- 
member seeing  a  lighthouse  one  morning  and 

3/ 


4    ,      ,  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

then  in  a  few  hours  another  one  —  yet  it  was  the 
same.  I  thought  at  the  time  it  was  funny ;  now 
I  know  we  had  turned  right  around,  and  beat  it 
back  some  distance.  Then  another  destroyer  came 
up,  also — luckily,  I  guess — a  dense  fog.  Anyhow 
we're  here.     It  was  kind  of  exciting,  though. 

We  are  in  huts :  our  work  is  merely  fatigue 
work  of  no  interest.  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  tell 
you;  but  of  the  things  I  have  learned  about  this 
greatest  of  world  upheavals.  .  .  . 

Well,  —  dinner  is  over,  in  a  rush,  like  a  lot  of 
wild  animals  —  beef,  potatoes,  rice  pudding  — 
the  same  always.  And  now  I  am  writing  on  my 
bed,  an  affair  of  boards  six  inches  from  the  ground 
and  rather  low. 

I  don't  know  how  to  begin  to  tell  you  "things" ; 
but  my  main  impression  is  that  I  should  have 
been  here  long  ago,  —  also,  not  in  a  "safety  first" 
corps.  This  thing  is  so  terrific,  this  war,  that  a 
Canadian  in  Canada  cannot  possibly  grasp  it. 

You  cannot  imagine  men  arriving  here  in  this 
camp,  getting  an  order  at  six  p.m.  to  be  at  the 
station  at  seven  —  no  sleep  that  night  —  run- 
ning like  hell  —  cross  the  Channel  and  next  go 
right  into  a  trench.  And  do  you  know  that 
they  have  gone  back  into  armour  again  in  this 
war  —  that  the  thing  is  so  desperately  fierce 
that  a  rifle  is  becoming  of  no  use,  only  high  explo- 
sive shells,  then  knives  and  hand  grenades? 
Men   come   back,   recovered  from   wounds,   for 


BLIGHTY  5 

three  days'  leave ;  and  have  to  go  right  back  to 
it  again  —  back  to  face  it  all.  And  all  the  men  — 
every  one  —  agree  that  it  is  indescribable.  You 
must  never  expect  to  come  back.  As  long  as  the 
sun  shines,  we  shall  never  drive  them  —  the  Ger- 
mans —  out  of  Belgium.  We  shall  win ;  but  not 
that  way. 

Also  all  agree  that  the  Huns  (and  you  soon  get 
the  habit  of  using  that  word)  do  not  play  the 
game.  They  have  ten  machine  guns  to  our  one, 
as  close  as  twenty-five  yards  apart  —  when  our 
men  have  in  cases  been  given  orders  to  fire  as 
little  as  six  shells  only  at  a  time.  But  the  Ger- 
mans cannot  stand  —  will  not  stand.  This  is  not 
just  rumour ;  but  what  I've  gathered  from  dozens 
of  talks  to  dozens  of  men.  The  great  difficulty 
is  to  distinguish  between  rumour  and  fact.  But 
I  am  being  careful  to  tell  you  what  I  am  sure  of. 

The  atrocities  are  facts. 

And  here  is  an  extraordinary  fact :  the  Saxons 
will  not  fight  against  us,  and  they  have  to  be 
split  up  here  and  there  with  Prussian  regiments.  .  .  . 

The  things  that  really  matter  are  not  in  any 
papers.  Hull  has  been  raided  more  than  once. 
On  one  occasion  over  one  hundred  were  killed. 
Three  times  last  week,  Zeppelins  tried  to  locate 
this  camp  and  failed.  It  was  read  out  in  Orders. 
Aeroplanes  scout  round,  night  as  well  as  day,  and 
in  the  Channel  just  over  the  cliff  lie  sometimes 
destroyers  —  sometimes  cruisers. 


6  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

This  letter  is  bound  to  be  disconnected;  but 
you  must  piece  it  together. 

Wounded  do  not  have  to  wear  belts  or  puttees ; 
others  do.  That  is  one  way  of  telling.  Another 
is  to  look  in  their  faces.  I  can  tell  one  at  a 
glance;  I  can  even  tell  you  the  man  who  has 
been  over,  without  asking.  That's  what  you 
call  it  —  "being  over."  ...  It  doesn't  sound 
much  but  —  it  means  a  lot. , 

I  cannot  tell  you  about  London,  all  at  once. 
First,  though,  it  is  the  only  town.  Once  again 
I  am  sure  of  it. 

But  what  a  London  now  ! 

London,  the  stiff,  stuck-up  place,  doesn't 
resemble  itself  in  the  least.  There  are  just  as 
many  Belgium  —  French  —  soldiers  on  the  street 
as  English,  little  boys  of  about  fourteen;  French 
is  spoken  almost  as  much  as  English,  and  every- 
where are  wounded  —  in  blue  hospital  suits,  in 
carriages  and  pairs,  in  autos,  and  on  top  of  'buses 
in  parties.  I  was  there  for  two  nights  and  two 
days.  I  was  alone,  but  they  won't  let  you  be 
alone  —  at  least  that  was  my  experience.  They 
want  to  talk  to  you.  Once  the  town,  as  I  re- 
member it,  only  just  woke  up  about  ten  p.m. 
Now  all  is  quiet  soon  after  ten. 

The  entrance  to  Hyde  Park  looked  quaint  with 
a  huge  searchlight  on  top  painted  a  dark  grey, 
and  beside  it,  in  a  kind  of  shed,  what  I  took  to 
be  an  anti-aircraft  gun. 


BLIGHTY  7 

15  July,  '15. 

It  is  all  too  vast  to  comprehend,  as  one  has 
nothing  to  compare  it  with.  .  .  .  On  Sunday  I 
saw  several  aeroplanes  rise  out  of  the  hills  at  the 
back  of  here,  and  wing  their  way  over  to  France. 
Only  a  few  years  ago,  Lord  Northcliffe  paid  fifty 
thousand   dollars   to  the  first  man  to  fly  over, 

and  the  fact  was  a  world  sensation.     At  H 

there  are  a  fleet  of  automobiles  that  at  a  distance 
look  just  like  ordinary  grey  machines  till  you  get 
close.  Then  you  see  each  is  mounted  with  a 
high-angle  gun.  It  all  seems  so  out  of  place  in 
these  little  quiet  English  lanes,  all  drowsing  in 
the  hot  summer  sun.  The  brambles  are  growing 
on  the  hedges  just  the  same.  The  sheep  dot  the 
little  green  fields,  and  old  women  bustle  around 
their  little  rose-covered  cottages,  everything  just 
like  it  always  is,  —  when  all  of  a  sudden  a  line 
of  huge  grey  trucks  goes  tearing  through  the 
narrow  lane,  stirring  up  great  clouds  of  dust, 
each  machine  with  Canada  painted  on  its  grey 
side  and  a  couple  of  Canucks,  who  have  no  no- 
tion what  "  speed  limit "  means,  on  the  front 
seat.  Inside  may  be  anything  from  bread  to 
guns.  The  natives  don't  even  look  up  from 
their  work.  No  one  even  glances  at  marching 
men,  or  aeroplanes,  or  anything.  All  this  is  quite 
natural  now.  Suddenly  you  round  a  turn,  and 
come  on  long,  long,  long  lines  of  sweating,  march- 


8  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

ing  men  in  full  kit,  rifle,  and  everything  —  band 
in  front.  They  are  on  a  route  march.  Tre- 
mendous things  they  are,  too,  as  two  men  who 
fell  out  and  died  last  week  could  no  doubt  have 
testified,  if  they  had  lived.  Sometimes  these 
are  undertaken  at  nights  —  unexpectedly.  Near 
our  camp  are  men  without  puttees,  and  with 
walking  sticks.  They  are  wounded  convalescent. 
And  away  over  on  the  other  side  are  the  big  hos- 
pitals where  the  wounded  are  cared  for.  I  don't 
know  how  many  there  are  of  those;  but  one  of 
our  men  who  has  been  attached  to  the  Medical 
Corps  does  nothing  all  day  long  but  carry  men 
on  a  stretcher  from  the  operating  tables  to  the 
long  lines  of  ambulance  cars  which  whizz  them 
away  to  their  particular  quarters.  He  says  the 
number  is  staggering.  And  all  this  is  only  in 
one  wee  corner  of  this  affair. 

There  is  nothing  I  suppose  for  me  to  tell  you 
about  the  war.  You  know  all  the  news  at  the 
same  time  as  I  do,  and  it's  less  confusing.  As  I 
write,  a  man  is  sitting  in  the  hut,  a  P.P. C. L.I. , 
wounded  in  the  legs.  You  may  notice  I  mention 
the  Patricia's  a  lot.  It's  because  we  are  quar- 
tered next  to  them  and  so  see  a  lot  of  them.  Also, 
I  still  think  they  are  the  best  outfit  here. 

The  big  trouble  I  have  in  describing  things  to 
you  is  that  I  have  only  hearsay  to  go  by,  and  so 
far  have  only  been  able  to  talk  to  "single-idea 
men ",  those  who  only  talk  of  that  which  they 


BLIGHTY  g 

themselves  have  done  and  seen,  therefore  narrow. 
It's  impossible  to-  get  a  general  idea.  However 
I  guess  if  I  were  there  myself,  I  would  be  the 
same.  I  couldn't  get  a  broad  idea,  only  seeing  a 
limited  view.  One  thing  however  is  very,  very 
certain  —  the  trenches  are  Hell.  No  other  word 
comes  anywhere  near  describing  it.  One  thing 
may  help  you  to  form  an  idea  of  the  feeling  in 
the  trenches ; '  the  men  play  cards  a  lot,  but  they 
don't  take  any  trouble  to  finesse  or  play  care- 
fully. They  bet  all  the  money  they  have.  When 
they  are  on  leave,  they  spend  all  their  money. 
Of  what  use,  they  say,  is  money  to  you?  Of 
what  use  to  think  of  the  future?  There  isn't 
going  to  be  one. 

Another  thing :  it  would  be  very  hard  for  you, 
I  know,  to  realize  that  the  Canadians  are  only 

a  very  tiny,  tiny  drop  in  all  this  ocean  of ? 

(Can't  find  word.)  What  I  mean  is  —  you 
only  hear  of  the  Canucks,  and  England  is  in- 
tensely proud  of  them ;  but  —  they  are  nothing 
by  comparison.  My  county,  Yorkshire,  has  fif- 
teen battalions  of  volunteers  in  France  now  — 
all  volunteers  at  twenty-five  cents  a  day. 

What  do  you  think  of  my  going  to  the  front? 
Perhaps  to  get  promotion  and  really  do  some- 
thing ?  I  am  slightly  indifferent  —  that  is,  just 
at  the  moment.  At  other  times,  mostly  when 
talking  to  men  just  come  back  or  just  going  over, 
I  want  to  be  in  it.     But  —  also  I  want  to  be 


10         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

with  you  and  Bill x  again.  You'd  better  hurry 
and  say  "go"  or  "stay."  Which?  I'd  sooner 
go  under  altogether  than  come  back  wounded. 
I've  never  yet  seen  a  wounded  man  that  looked  as 
though  he'd  ever  be  good  for  anything  any  more. 
And  that  is  a  big  thing  to  say,  but  it's  true.  I 
hope  I'm  wrong. 

Two  weeks  ago,  we  turned  out  hatless  in  the 
pouring  rain  to  cheer  a  draft  of  Princess  Pats 
on  their  way  to  the  boat.  Yesterday  we  heard 
they  had  been  slashed  to  pieces,  and  now  another 
draft  must  go. 

It  rains  here  every  day  —  every  day  without 
fail.  Some  say  it's  the  bombardment  over  the 
Channel.  I  don't  know.  Certainly  —  though  I 
haven't  much  to  say  for  the  English  climate  at 
any  time  —  this  surely  is  the  limit.  And  cold ! 
I  freeze  nearly  every  night  with  three  blankets, 
and  often  have  to  get  my  overcoat  on  the  bed  to 
keep  warm. 

17  August,  '15. 

Just  had  dinner,  got  my  transfer  signed  by  the 
doctor  this  morning.  Think  I  must  have  been 
passed  before  I  was  examined,  as  he  only  just 
glanced  at  me  without  getting  out  of  his  chair, 
and  said  I  was  passed.  The  next  I  hear  will 
be  my  name  in  Orders  as  transferred  from  the 
to    the    C.A.M.C.     Thank    God!     Guess 

1  The  writer's  daughter. 


BLIGHTY  11 

I'll  be  a  little  more  useful  than  ornamental  from 
now  on,  and  can  take  a  larger  part  in  this  war; 
and  if  I  get  back,  will  at  least  have  a  feeling  that 
I  attempted  something,  however  little.  A  C.A. 
M.C.  draft  is  going  over  very  soon.  I  hope  I 
get  in  it  and  can  start  to  be  of  use  at  once. 

Yesterday  all  the  Canadians  were  reviewed  by 
the  Princess  Alexandra  of  Teck.  As  usual,  it 
poured  with  rain  —  it's  raining  as  I  write  this  — 
It  rains  every  day  —  There  is  a  rumour  the  King 
inspects  us  this  week  sometime. 

Reviews  are  a  nuisance  to  the  men.  They  all 
hate  them. 

18  August,  '15. 

Last  night  a  number  of  destroyers  in  the 
Channel  began  "talking"  in  their  peculiar  sharp 
yapping  way  with  their  sirens,  just  for  all  the 
world  like  a  bunch  of  fox  terriers  on  the  scent  of 
a  rabbit.  Then  guns  began  to  speak.  It  only 
lasted  a  few  minutes.  I  suppose  it  was  an  air- 
ship again,  or  maybe  just  a  false  alarm ;  nothing 
very  serious,  anyhow,  but  a  little  exciting  —  par- 
ticularly to  those  who  have  no  experience  at 
gun  fire. 

A  man  just  returned  from  London  says  that 
when  immediate  orders  for  the  return  of  certain 
units  to  their  regiments  are  given  out,  the  news 
is  flashed  on  the  cinema  screens,  and  any  men 
there  beat  it  to  the  nearest  station. 


12         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

There  are  no  orders  respecting  my  transfer 
yet.  It  has  gone  through,  of  course ;  but  it  has 
to  be  on  the  Daily  Orders  before  I  move  over. 
Wish  it  would  come.  This  is  monotonous  and 
I  may  miss  the  next  draft.  If  I  do,  the  wait 
may  be  interminable.  That's  one  of  the  main 
hardships  in  the  army  —  at  least  on  active  ser- 
vice —  the  uncertainty  and  the  long,  long  waits. 
I  have  heard  that  some  men  go  crazy  in  the 
trenches  when  the  order  is  delayed  for  some 
reason,  after  being  given  for  a  charge.  And  in  a 
minor  way  the  long  wait  for  reviews,  on  special 
parades,  and  the  uncertainty  of  moves  are  all 
irritating  to  the  last  degree.  I  can't  even  begin 
to  imagine  why  a  man  should  want  to  be  a 
soldier  in  peace  time. 

(Noon)  19  August,  '15. 

Still  no  orders  about  the  transfers.  Worked 
up  at  clinic.  More  patients  by  about  a  dozen 
than  we  could  possibly  attend  to.  Very  lovely 
morning.  Got  further  details  about  the  Zepp. 
raid  of  last  night.  All  reports  forget  to  state 
that  a  fleet  of  Zeppelins  reached  London  and 
made  a  regular  killing.  Bad  news  has  been  sup- 
pressed, but  men  are  coming  in  all  the  time  today 
who  went  yesterday  up  to  see  the  damage  done. 
It  was  pretty  bad,  whole  streets  being  torn  up. 

Why  the  deuce  they  fail  to  find  this  camp, 
beats  me  altogether.     There  are  today  fifty  thou- 


BLIGHTY  13 

sand  men  —  soldiers  —  camped  in  a  few  square 
miles  here,  yet  all  the  silly  fools  can  do  is  to  drop 
bombs  on  towns  and  kill  civilians.  I  won't 
believe  they  don't  know,  almost  to  a  man,  just 
how  many  are  here  and  where  we  are.  Yet  they 
never  come.  .  .  . 

20  August,  '15. 

I  wonder  if  President  Wilson  will  send  a  note 
or  only  just  a  picture  postcard  over  this  latest 
atrocity.  What  on  earth  can  they  gain  by  sink- 
ing the  Arabic?  Gott  and  the  Kaiser  alone 
know. 

Tonight  my  transfer  is  in  Orders  and  tomor- 
row I  move.  I  will  send  the  address  immediately 
I  get  it.  I  shall  miss  the  draft  leaving  for  France 
right  away. 

7.55  a.m.     Tuesday,  9  November,  '15. 
Dearie :  — 

Your  letter  came  —  to  use  the  novelist's  ex- 
pression —  at  the  psychological  moment  (only 
they  spell  it  differently)!  Anyhow,  it  was  the 
one  thing  needed  and,  if  you  promise  not  to  laugh, 
I'll  tell  you  —  I  slept  with  it  in  my  hand  (till 
it  fell  out).  You'll  be  surprised,  of  course,  but 
this  is  being  written  in  Bed  1,  Ward  15,  No.  2 
General  Hospital,  Chelsea,  London. 

Don't  get  excited.  I  was  never  better  in  my 
life  —  never.     I  feel  just  great;    I've  just  had 


14         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

my  temperature  taken  and  all  is  well.  On  the 
sheet  above  my  cot,  it  says  I  am  suffering  from 
rheumatic  cold  (whatever  that  is)  and  generally 
run  down.  Anyhow,  as  I  said,  I  feel  fine,  and 
your  letter  has  done  me  worlds  of  good.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  the  hospital,  if  you  like.  .  .  . 

It's  an  English  hospital;  it  used  to  be  a  col- 
lege, St.  Mark's.  Luckily  I  struck  the  Austra- 
lian ward.  There  are  only  two  English  in  it : 
one  in  the  opposite  corner  as  I  write  —  he's 
screened  off  —  cashing  in. 

The  other  is  a  sixteen-year-old  boy  of  the 
"cissie"  class  —  a  real  sport.  The  rest  are 
Australians  and  New  Zealanders  and  me  — 
Canuck.  Only  three  can  get  up.  Every  day, 
ladies  call  in  autos  and  taxis  to  take  out  those 
who  can  go;  they  take  'em  everywhere,  shows 
and  everything.  I  had  no  idea  that  the  women 
of  the  country  were  so  eager  to  help.  It's 
splendid. 

The  place  of  course  is  spotless  —  lots  of  flowers 
and  a  canary  bird.  It's  peaceful,  and  I  guess  it's 
doing  me  no  end  of  good. 

It's  peaceful,  dear.  But  —  at  night  —  well  — 
most  stories  have  two  sides. 

The  man  in  the  corner  dies  very  slowly. 

All  the  others  are  wounded  —  and  I  guess 
their  wounds  hurt  more  at  night. 

There  is  another  thing.  I  guess  I've  made 
up  my  mind  I'm  going  to  France  alright.     But  — 


BLIGHTY  15 

It's  a  very  different  thing,  this  volunteering 
to  go  now,  to  volunteering  in  Ottawa.  The  brass 
band  accompaniment  has  all  gone.  The  glamour 
has  worn  off.  I  want  to  go  home.  I'd  give 
the  world  to  go  home.  .  .  . 

Yet,  I  feel  somehow  I  ought  to  go. 

Night. 

Before  I  go  to  bed,  I  want  to  give  you  an  ac- 
count of  the  concert  I  went  to  tonight.  To  be- 
gin with,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  every  other 
night  the  greatest  concerts  you  could  get  are 
given  here.  A  large  number  of  the  best  theatrical 
people  live  in  Chelsea,  and  on  their  way  to  the 
theatre,  they  make  up  parties  of  their  friends 
and  arrange  a  quick  concert  in  this  hospital. 
It's  just  great  of  them,  I  think. 

When  I  got  in  the  hall,  I  fairly  gasped.  If 
only  you  could  have  been  there !  Imagine  the 
large  hall  of  the  college,  huge,  high,  magnificent. 
Ranged  all  up  and  down  round  the  walls,  in  rows, 
cots  with  wounded  in  them.  Between  the  beds, 
little  benches  full  of  men  in  blue  suits,  and  Red 
Cross  nurses  here,  there  and  everywhere.  Round, 
above,  a  balcony,  also  packed  with  blue-suited 
men  with  nurses,  and  where  there  was  not  room 
on  the  benches,  men  sat  on  the  beds  —  men  from 
all  the  ends  of  the  earth,  of  all  classes,  yet  all 
pals,  bound  together  for  one  purpose,  one  end. 
The  air  was  blue  with  smoke.     At  one  end  was 


16         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER; 

a  stage  with  a  lot  of  the  ward  screens  —  folding 
ones  —  on  it,  and  an  electric  lamp  or  two.  I 
think  it  was  the  most  impressive  sight  I've  ever 
seen.  Wheeled  chairs  everywhere,  men  in  every 
state  of  bandaged  injury,  and  the  men  lying  in 
bed,  some  in  dressing  gowns,  men  in  silk  pyjamas, 
men  in  college  blazers,  and  even  men  in  Canadian 
sweaters. 

I  shall  never  forget  it,  never. 

One  thing  that  impressed  me  was  in  leaving. 
You  know  how  a  usual  crowd  of  men  rush  out 
of  a  show.  Well,  this  show  did  not  rush  —  each 
man  dared  not  touch  his  neighbour.  He  did  not 
know  where  he  was  hurt. 

9.45  a.m.     11  November,  '15. 

My  dearest  girl. 

.  .  .  Last  night,  Wednesday,  was  Zepp.  night; 
but  none  came.  It's  curious  how  method- 
ical the  Germans  are,  even  in  war.  It  seems 
they  cannot  get  away  from  it.  In  the  trenches 
in  France,  I  am  told  they  begin  their  morning 
and  evening  "Hate"  in  the  shape  of  a  tremendous 
artillery  bombardment  at  exactly  the  same  hour 
to  the  minute,  morning  and  evening,  and  stop 
at  the  same  time.  It's  curious.  You'd  think 
they'd  stand  a  better  chance,  if  they  varied  it. 
Wednesday  night,  in  London,  is  always  Zepp. 
night.  Last  night,  from  the  windows  of  the 
ward,  we  could  see  the  searchlights,  one  talking 


BLIGHTY  17 

continuously  in  code  to  the  aeroplanes  aloft. 
Sister  said  the  planes,  circling  around  all  night, 
continuously  dropped  green  rockets  —  apparently 
to  say  all  was  well. 

London,  of  course,  is  almost  quite  dark  now,  at 
night.  It's  a  fearful  undertaking,  crossing  a 
busy  street  after  dark.  All  the  trains  have 
blinds  down.  The  street  cars  and  'buses  are 
dark  inside.  Clock  faces  are  not  lit  up.  Of 
course,  there  are  no  electric  signs.  All  shop 
windows  have  blinds  down. 

London  has  adopted  the  German  plan  of 
displaying  captured  guns.  It's  a  good  idea,  I 
think.     I  wonder  they  haven't  done  it  before. 

I  don't  profess  to  understand  the  war  news 
these  days;  I  don't  know  whether  it's  good  or 
bad.  The  only  thing  I  do  understand,  is,  that 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  navy,  we'd  'a'  been  licked 
long  ago. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  absolutely  fed  up  with 
it  all.  When  I  read  the  American  magazines  —  or 
rather  read  the  ads.  —  I  just  ache  to  be  back.  I 
found  some  new  "Penrod"  stories,  and  also  some 
"Wallingford"  ones.  Oh!  Gee!  but  it's  fine  to 
read  something  live  again !  I've  got  hold  of  a 
book  called  "Queed";  I've  heard  of  it  some- 
where, but  I  can't  think  where.  I've  only  read 
two  or  three  pages,  but  it  looks  promising. 

No  dearie,  no  England  for  mine,  not  without 
you!    To  live  here  in  the  same  conditions  as 


18         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

we  would  be  living  in  the  States  —  No,  thank 
you !  Mind  you,  I  want  to  come  back.  There's 
something  will  always  drag  me  back ;  but  always  it 
will  grow  stale.  I  understand  that's  how  it  affects 
all  Englishmen  who  have  travelled  a  bit.  Doesn't 
Kipling  say  something  about  it  ?     Methinks  — 

"The  breezes  of  England  are  stale 
And  the  sunshine  of  England  is  pale." 

I  forget  it.  Anyhow  it  hits  the  spot,  as  all 
Kipling's  stuff  does. 

Friday,  8.45  a.m.     (In  Bed) 

I  am  writing  this  while  they  are  cleaning  up 
the  ward.  All  the  beds  are  moved  around,  floor 
polished,  your  little  table  washed  —  everything 
made  spotless  under  the  watchful  eye  of  Sister. 
This  is  done  every  morning,  and  when  all  is  ship- 
shape and  peaceful  again,  the  doctor  comes 
around.  Most  of  us  read.  One  man  makes  wire 
and  bead  butterflies,  which  visitors  buy  off  him. 
Some  are  not  well  enough  to  do  anything  but  lie 
and  doze  all  day.  •  It's  very  clean,  peaceful  and 
—  yes  —  I  guess  it  is  rather  nice.  The  fact  is, 
I  feel  so  awfully  fit,  I  could  push  a  'bus  over  with 
one  hand.  Yet  this  morning  I  am  going  to  have 
my  first  electric  bath.  The  boys  who  have  had 
them  say  they  are  rather  nice. 

It's  a  regular  old  London  November  fog  out- 
side, yellow,  soapy.     Yet,  somehow,  London  — 


BLIGHTY  19 

and  fascinating.  It  sneaks  through  the  cracks 
in  the  windows,  under  the  doors,  everywhere. 
Dear  old,  dirty  London !  I  am  sick  of  her.  — 
Yes.  But  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  I  have  to 
come  back,  and  again  back.  She's  irresistible. 
Yet  I  hate  the  very  sound  of  the  English  accent. 
I  am  absolutely  an  American  in  all  the  word 
stands  for.  I  don't  like  the  English  —  But  — 
There  it  is  —  Just  this  one  town  has  "got  me" 
and  will  always  have,  as  it  has  all  Englishmen 
who  have  lived  here,  from  the  North  Pole  to  the 
South.  Just  give  me  a  steerage  ticket  across  the 
Atlantic,  and  without  a  cent  I  would  fairly  run 
on  board.  .  .  . 

Monday,  9  a.m. 

I  mentioned,  I  think,  how  the  rich  people 
send  crates  full  of  fruit  for  this  hospital,  from  the 
Queen  downwards.  Well,  now  a  contrast :  a 
parson  came  in  the  other  night  with  a  small 
parcel  under  his  arm.  He  said  a  poor  girl  in  the 
East  End  had  been  denying  herself  sugar  for  two 
months,  so  the  wounded  soldiers  could  have  it. 
There  were  perhaps  two  pounds.     Pathetic,  eh? 

In  this  war,  you  get  a  good  chance  to  see  what 
a  leveller  this  war  is  from  a  social  point  of  view. 
A  woman  with  about  a  thousand  pounds'  worth 
of  furs  sits  on  one  bed,  and  the  next  holds  a  poor 
woman  from  the  East  End  who  has  done  her 
very  best  to  trick  herself  out  a  bit,  and  only  made 


80         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

herself  look  pathetic.  Of  course  in  Canada,  or 
the  States,  the  gulf  is  not  so  wide ;  but  here  where 
it  has  been,  and  will  be  again,  so  wide  as  to  be 
unbridgeable,  indeed  a  separate  world  altogether, 
it  strikes  with  tremendous  force.  The  men  all 
look  alike,  in  bed  or  in  a  blue  hospital  suit.  Only 
when  they  speak  can  you  place  them;  but  their 
visitors  label  'em  at  once  and  forever.  I  notice 
the  men  in  the  poorer  class  kiss  their  sons.  The 
rich  don't.  The  poor  display  all  their  emotions 
from  joy  to  tears.  The  rich  seem  casual,  off- 
hand, just  pleasantly  cheery.     But  — 

I  know  there  are  no  serious  heart-to-heart 
talks  in  this ;  but  I  don't  feel  like  that  kind  of  a 
talk.     Let  it  rest  a  while,  till  I  get  out  of  here. 

Friday,  19  November,  '15. 
No.  2  General  Hospital, 
Chelsea,  London. 

...  I  was  only  thinking,  last  night,  I'm 
having  one  of  the  times  of  my  life :  lots  of  the 
best  grub,  all  kinds  of  good  shows  to  see,  nothing 
to  do,  and  a  couple  of  Sisters  running  around 
fixing  you  up  all  the  time,  a  comfy  bed,  and  lovely 
clean  things  every  other  day  —  and  all  the  time 
feeling  absolutely  fine.  I  forgot  to  mention  that 
a  masseuse  gives  me  electric  air  baths  every  other 
day,  which  are  just  too  great  for  anything  — and 
this  is  War.     Gee! 

The  lady  I  mentioned  in  the  previous  letter, 


BLIGHTY  £1 

who  I  got  the  chocolates  from,  was  a  multi- 
millionaire. She  brings  a  big  six  Rolls-Royce 
limousine  with  her  and  puts  all  the  boys  in  she 
can  get,  and  sends  her  chauffeur  along  to  drive 
'em  all  over  London,  while  she  stays  in  the  ward 
and  sews  buttons  on  the  boys'  shirts  for  'em. 
She  is  getting  up  a  sort  of  bazaar.  Every  man 
in  this  place  has  to  make  something.  Prizes  will 
be  given,  and  the  things  sold  as  souvenirs,  the 
money  to  go  to  the  Red  Cross.  It's  great  fun. 
We  all  have  something.  Some  of  the  boys  here 
are  knitting  scarfs,  string  bags,  dressing  dolls. 
You'd  die  to  see  some  of  the  results.  I  have  a 
kettle  holder  to  make.  It's  a  kind  of  a  square 
piece  of  canvas  with  holes  in  it.  In  the  middle 
is  a  cat,  and  I  have  to  fill  all  the  little  holes  in  it 
with  wool.  It's  awful  hard  work,  and  I  guess 
I'm  making  a  rotten  mess  of  it.  But,  as  I  said, 
it's  a  lot  of  fun.  .  .  . 

I  forgot  whether  I  told  you  that  this  hospital  has 
the  record  for  London  of  turning  out  ninety  per 
cent,  of  its  casualties  cured.  They  are  very  jealous 
of  their  reputation,  and  it's  harder  to  get  out  than 
it  is  in.     They  don't  want  to  take  any  chances. 

We  were  to  have  had  that  boat-load  of  wounded 
from  the  Anglia,  but  you  know  what  happened 
most  of  them  —  so  last  night  we  got  a  train  from 
the  Dardanelles.  .  .  . 

About  noon,  Sister  asked  me  if  I'd  like  to  go 
out  in  the  afternoon.     You  bet  I  did.     A  lady 


%%         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

came  with  a  six  Rolls-Royce  limousine  and  took 
all  the  car  would  hold  to  Kingsway  Hall  to  a 
concert.  *  After  the  concert  she  took  us  to  tea. 

Gee,  but  the  Londoners  have  changed;  this 
war  sure  has  given  them  a  jolt.  Just  imagine  a 
year  or  two  ago  what  would  happen  if  a  bunch 
of  fellows  strolled  into  the  stalls  of  a  show  in 
dressing  gowns  —  in  dear,  staid  old  London ! 
And  yet  I've  seen  that  happen,  and  seen  fellows 
carried  in  at  full  length,  and  every  one  anxious 
to  help.  Once,  to  applaud  a  turn  was  vulgar. 
Today  all  the  cat  calls,  whistles,  and  roars  to  come 
back  are  quite  in  order,  and  only  just  draw  pleas- 
ant, indulgent  smiles  from  the  one-time  stiff 
people  of  a  few  years  ago.  The  common  or  gar- 
den Tommy  owns  London  today,  and  the  people 
are  finding  out  what  Kipling  told  them  a  few 
years  ago  :  that  he  is  just  an  ordinary  man  "most 
remarkable  like  you."  You  must  realize  that 
before  the  war  a  Tommy  in  uniform  was  not 
even  allowed  in  a  better  part  of  the  theatre  or  in 
the  best  bars  of  the  West  End  hotels. 

It  struck  me  yesterday  that  England  may 
perhaps  be  different,  after  all,  when  the  war  is 
over.  There  were  several  ladies  yesterday  with 
parties  of  fellows,  and  one  thing  I  could  not  help 
noticing  —  that  all  that  patronising  way  that 
the  "upper"  classes  always  affected  when  giving 
charity,  was  all  gone.  They  honestly  got  down 
to  brass  tacks,  and  meant  everything,  and  en- 


BLIGHTY  23 

joyed  doing  it.  If  only  that  get-together  feeling 
would  last,  England  would  be  the  finest  country 
in  the  world.  At  tea,  which  we  had  in  one  of 
the  side  rooms  in  the  hall,  we  were  waited  on  by 
the  ladies  who  took  us  and  by  the  people  who 
sang  and  played.  One  party  was  being  waited 
on  by  Lord  Kitchener's  sister. 

And  now  I  must  quit  and  get  on  with  my  cat, 
which  my  Canuck  lady  says  is  very  good  and 
should  have  a  prize.     Ahem  ! ! ! ! 

Tuesday,  13  December. 

You'll  want  to  hear  about  the  Zepp.  raid.  All 
the  town  is  on  edge  now.  The  barber,  as  he 
shaves  you,  says  he  knows  for  a  fact  six  are  on 
the  way  now;  we  are  to  have  them  every  night. 
The  news  boys  ask  you  about  them ;  every  one 
you  speak  to  discusses  nothing  else.  You  see 
it  was  the  first  time  the  war  got  "right  home." 
They've  had  Zepp.  raids  on  London,  of  course, 
before;  but  never  three  of  'em  right  overhead 
in  the  West  End  —  the  pleasure  part  —  with 
anti-aircraft  guns  banging  from  the  most  unex- 
pected places,  some  throwing  star  shells,  others 
shrapnel,  others  high  explosives  —  and  the  long 
silver  streak  dropping  her  death  and  destruction 
all  around,  apparently  oblivious  of  all  the  attempts 
to  bring  her  down.  Crowds  blocked  the  streets 
and  yelled,  collaring  hold  of  each  other  as  a  shell 
burst  right  over  the  machine.     Every  time  she 


24          A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

dipped  in  her  manoeuvres,  which  were  most  re- 
markably graceful  and  rapid  for  such  a  huge 
affair,  they  thought  she  was  coming  down,  and 
roared  like  at  some  huge  firework  display.  It 
was  the  most  stupendous  show  I  shall  ever  see. 
I  was  tremendously  lucky.  When  I  first  heard 
the  banging,  I  was  on  the  Y.  steps,  talking  to  a 
Yank  who  had  joined  the  English  army.  We 
saw  the  thing  as  soon  as  the  searchlights  found 
her,  and  raced  towards  her.  She  was  headed  our 
way  at  the  time,  and  when  right  over  us,  there 
was  a  rushing  sound  overhead  and  a  hell  of  a 
bang  which  seemed  right  on  top  of  us.  In  real- 
ity, the  bomb  had  fallen  about  thirty  or  forty 
yards  away  on  the  corner  of  a  saloon  which  it 
tore  completely  away,  entering  the  ground  and 
breaking  open  a  gas  main.  This  took  fire  and 
a  flame  shot  'way  up  over  the  house  tops,  busted 
windows  all  around,  dropped  bits  of  glass  on  us. 
I  thought  it  was  parts  of  a  shell  and  I  had  got  it 
this  time;  but  I  hardly  felt  it.  The  heat  from 
the  gas  burning  was  tremendous.  Lots  of  people 
running  aimlessly  and  yelling.  I  never  saw  my 
Yank  friend  again,  but  an  Australian  officer 
came  up  —  the  police  were  quite  helpless,  so 
he  and  I  got  one  of  those  barrels  they  put  street 
refuse  in  —  a  yellow  three-wheeled  thing.  We 
found  some  sand  in  a  big  green  bin  on  the  corner 
and  filled  her  up  —  the  barrel,  I  mean  —  and 
chucked  the  whole  works  on  the  hole  where  the 


BLIGHTY  25 

flames  came  up.  A  teaspoonful  would  have  done 
as  much  good.  By  this  time  a  crowd  was  there, 
mostly  soldiers.  Then  came  a  fire  engine.  The 
Australian  had  one  end  of  the  big  nozzle;  I  was 
next.  The  soldiers  all  lined  up  and  formed  a 
fatigue.  It  was  great.  The  firemen  went  to 
bust  walls  and  things  to  get  back  of  the  saloon, 
as  it  was  on  fire,  too.  All  we  did  was  to  hold  the 
nozzle  over  the  hole  in  the  street,  as  near  to  it 
as  we  could  get,  but  it  didn't  put  it  out.  The 
Zepp.  was  sailing  merrily  around  all  the  time, 
absolutely  oblivious  of  the  guns  —  the  shooting 
was  a  joke  —  and  every  one  was  saying  "where 
are  the  aeroplanes?"  But  narry  a  one  went  up. 
I  had  a  row  with  a  Royal  Flying  Corpsman  about 
it.  He  said  they  hadn't  enough  machines. 
Damn  rot !  Some  one  blundered  over  that  raid ; 
they've  admitted  it,  as  a  squad  of  French  airmen 
have  come  to  town  and  they've  mounted  bigger 
guns  here  and  there. 

Later  (just  been  down  to  tea). 

By  the  way,  this  is  a  rotten  place  to  write. 
I'm  in  the  big  main  hall.  It's  packed  —  soldiers 
of  all  kinds  from  the  ends  of  the  earth.  In  the 
morning,  this  same  hall  will  be  full  of  sleeping 
soldiers,  wounded  and  others,  on  the  sofas  and 
things.  They  cannot  find  beds  anywhere.  I 
sleep  in  a  large  dormitory  that  was  once  the  main 
smoking-room,  now  full  of  iron  cots.     No  dis- 


26         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

tinction  is  made.  We  are  all  the  same.  My  God, 
to  think  I  nearly  forbore  to  wear  this  khaki ! 
I  would  have  died  of  shame.  .  .  .  Thank  God, 
I  am  in  it,  and  —  dearie  —  remember  it  is  all 
done  in  your  name  —  yours  —  and  Billie's,  who 
is  half  English.  But  to  resume  on  the  raid  —  I 
have  lost  the  thread,  I  must  look  up  where  I 
left  off.  Yes,  bigger  guns,  and  that  reminds  me 
I  have  a  cutting.     Wait  .  .  . 

To  come  to  the  horrid,  yet  most  serious  part. 
Of  course,  though  they  smashed  a  lot  of  property, 
they  did  no  real  damage.  It  is  also  —  about  — 
true  that  they  never  kill  a  soldier.  But  you 
don't  want  to  believe  what  you  read  about  the 
"casualties.'* 

This  particular  night,  they  didn't  have  enough  am- 
bulances. That's  true.  An  archdeacon  preached 
a  sermon,  last  Sunday,  in  which  he  said  he 
personally  knew  five  babies  that  were  blown  to 
bits. 

I  myself  saw  so  many  bodies  being  carted 
away  that  I  didn't  bother  to  count  them. 

I  heard  from  a  soldier  eye-witness  where  they 
had  to  jump  over  lots  of  dead  bodies  to  get  to 
work  on  a  burning  building.  The  bomb  had 
dropped  on  a  crowd. 

One  story  told  me  in  the  Y.  here  was  about  a 
motor-bus  driver's  head  dropping  into  an  adja- 
cent street.  I  think  it  was  true,  though  of 
course  it  seems  fantastic, 


BLIGHTY  M 

I  suppose  it's  war  alright.  They  talk  of  war 
on  women  and  babes;  but,  damn  it,  we  should 
do  the  same.  Why  not?  Where  is  our  gas, 
etc.  ?  But,  if  we  can  win  without  it,  I'd  be  more 
pleased  if  we  could  and  would  "play  the  game." 

7  January,  '16. 

Moved  into  new  billets  with  two  good  boys, 
both  very  nice.  We  are  all  in  one  room,  nine- 
teen in  the  house  altogether.  Our  window  over- 
looks the  sea.  Feel  very  pleased  with  every- 
thing, just  old  lady  —  young  son,  boy  scout  — 
got  breakfast  for  all  of  us  this  morning.  Mother 
sick.  Helped  him  at  night  to  wash  dishes  — 
Awfully  nice  kid. 

Yesterday  met  a  man  going  blind  with  pto- 
maine poisoning.  Gave  him  note  to  Lai  —  seemed 
awfully  strange  sending  messages  like  that,  made 
the  distance  between  us  seem  closer,  and  yet,  oh, 
so  far  away. 

In  my  heart,  I  don't  think  I'll  be  home  next 
Xmas.  I  don't  think  this  war  will  be  completed 
by  then,  and  again  when  it's  over  they  can't  ship 
every  one  over  inside  six  months.  It's  Hell; 
but  it's  better  to  face  it  than  kid  yourself. 

20  January,  '16. 

Volunteered  for  draft  in  afternoon.  Passed 
doctor  in  good  shape.  Feel  greatly  relieved  and 
bucked  up  that  I  have  managed  to  get  on.     Draft 


28         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

consists  of  fifty  men.  As  we  are  practically  all 
strangers  to  each  other,  it  is  a  little  "difficult" 
at  first,  but  no  doubt  that  will  soon  rub  off.  The 
office  staff  volunteered  in  great  style;  the  whole 
postal  department  volunteered  in  a  body. 

Got  a  new  kit  —  quality  not  nearly  so  good 
as  the  original  one  received  in  Ottawa. 

21  January,  '16. 

Paraded  for  inspection  before  the  Colonel  — 
all  O.K.  He  said  "Men,  you  all  look  fit  and 
well,  and  are  about  to  have  the  chance  you  have 
waited  for  —  etc.  etc."  Still  have  no  definite 
idea  of  our  destination. 

Weather  very  wet  and  miserable.  Crossing 
will  not  be  much  fun  —  sea  high. 

Taking  only  just  what  kit  I  really  need.  Leav- 
ing the  rest  in  my  billet  till  I  return. 

22  January,  '16. 

Wet  and  cold.  Went  for  route  march,  feel 
great.  Told  were  sure  to  leave  any  minute  now. 
Hope  so  —  don't  like  the  suspense.  Had  lec- 
tures again  from  ten-thirty.  The  more  I  see 
there  is  to  know,  the  more  scared  I  get.  All  the 
fellows  but  a  few  learned  something  or  other 
while  in  training  in  Canada,  and  more  here.  All 
I  know  is  the  Army  Office  routine,  or  that  part  of 
it  directly   connected   with  the  Records,   which 


BLIGHTY  29 

I  am  afraid  will  not  amount  to  much  in  the  field. 
However,  guess  I  can  learn. 

I  want  to  put  you  wise  again  to  that  so-called 
"casualty"  who  will  call  on  you  —  the  one  that's 
going  blind.  Be  sure  you  don't  do  anything  for 
him  twice.  I  heard  last  night  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  saying  he  got  his  trouble  at  Festubert  from 
gas,  and  then  "touched"  you  for  half  a  dollar. 

Sunday.     (Noon) 

Still  here,  glorious  day,  sun  shining,  warm  as 
spring.  Just  been  for  a  stroll  along  the  prom. 
Sea  splashing  right  on  to  the  board  walk.  Ten 
a.m.  paraded  with  overseas  party  for  church  — 
went  to  Congregational  (no  option).  In  the 
whole  church  there  were  just  three  women,  no 
civilians,  two  officers,  and  tucked  away  at  one 
side  was  our  party.  I  can't  understand  the 
reason.  If  we  hadn't  blown  in  accidentally, 
the  congregation  would  have  consisted  of  five 
persons. 

I  don't  like  the  service  at  all.  It's  the  first 
time  I've  been  to  a  church  of  that  kind,  I  think. 

I  have  found  quite  a  different  outlook  on  every- 
thing since  I  got  away  from  the  city  side  of 
things.  I  have  a  "job  of  work"  to  do.  It  will 
last  so  long  and  no  longer,  and  the  only  thing  to 
do  is  to  make  the  best  of  it  till  I  can  come  home. 

It  is  my  intention  to  slip  this  into  an  envelope 
at  the  last  minute.     That  minute  may  be  tonight. 


30         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

We  parade  at  seven  p.m.,  so  excuse  any  sudden 
ending.  Had  identification  tag  stamped.  Hope 
I  can  hang  on  to  it  for  you  as  a  souvenir.  Fel- 
lows are  wearing  them  as  bracelets  now,  instead 
of  around  neck. 

Told  we  could  not  take  cameras  or  keep  diaries. 
Shall  chance  diary,  but  be  careful  what  I  enter. 
Weather  getting  worse.  Don't  think  we  shall 
go  this  week,  personally. 

Beds  all  torn  up.  Place  now  mess  room  for 
troops,  long  oilcloth-covered  tables  run  up  and 
down  the  floor  from  the  stage  to  the  back; 
ticket  offices,  cloak  room,  etc.  form  kitchens. 
Strikes  one  as  very  novel,  on  first  entrance,  to 
see  men  peeling  spuds  in  the  ladies'  cloak  room, 
makes  very  good  place  for  lectures.  Was  told 
what  was  expected  of  us  and  so  forth  (apparently 
there's  quite  a  lot).  No  one  knows  where  we 
are  going  or  just  when,  but  we  must  not  leave 
billets.  So  it's  any  minute.  Completed  all  kit 
packing  (awful  job !)  but  have  everything  in 
fine  shape  now. 

Feeling  tremendously  well. 

Quite  confident  you  will  approve  of  my  ac- 
tion. .  .  . 


II 

AT  THE  BASE 


II 

AT  THE  BASE 

Thursday,  29  January,  '16. 
(Address  as  usual) 
My  very  dearest  girl :  — 

Today  there  was  an  "Overseas  Draft"  wanted 
—  I  volunteered  —  was  accepted  —  passed  the 
doctor  with  flying  colours.  He  said  I  was  in 
splendid  shape. 

Tonight  I  get  my  kit — and  tomorrow  I  begin  my 
real — really  work — the  kind  you  will  be  proud  of. 

I  shall  write  every  slightest  opportunity. 

Wish  me  luck ! 

Another  letter  tomorrow. 

Your  own  loving  pal  and  husband, 

R.  A.  L. 

4  February,  '16. 
Somewhere  in  France. 
My  very  dearest  Lai :  — 

Arrived  in  camp  here  safely  and  am  now  waiting 
orders  to  move  up  the  line. 

Just  when  I  have  the  most  interesting  things 
to  tell  you,  I  must  confine  myself  to  generalities, 
60  you  must  understand,  when  you  get  letters 

33 


34         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

which  contain  nothing  but  uninteresting  per- 
sonal details,  that  it  is  not  my  fault. 

The  weather  here  is  not  bad,  but  damp  and 
cold.  We  are  in  tents  (twelve  in  each)  out  in  the 
country,  and  the  work  is  just  fatigues,  etc.  until 
we  get  attached  permanently  to  some  particular 
detail.  This  morning  I  helped  scrub  out  the 
Y.M.C.A  hut.  Some  job,  and  I'm  afraid  I'm  not 
very  expert  at  it  as  yet. 

The  camp  here  is  about  the  cleanest  and  best 
arranged  I  have  seen.  Of  course,  everything  is 
much  stricter  —  discipline  and  everything.  It's 
very  obvious  that  there  is  a  war  on. 

I  don't  think  there  is  any  more  I  can  tell  you. 
It  isn't  much;  is  it?  But  I'll  write  more,  when 
I  get  settled.  I  hope  you  won't  forget  to  write 
oftener  now ;  will  you  ? 

Give  my  love  to  Bill.  With  every  best  thing 
I  can  wish  for  you. 

Sunday  Afternoon,  5  February,  '16. 

My  dearest  Lai :  — 

.  .  .  We  are  still  in  the  same  camp  at  the  base, 
waiting  instructions,  and  I  shall  be  glad  when  we 
move.  There's  nothing  to  do  but  fatigues  all  day, 
and  it's  getting  monotonous.  There's  a  big  English 
camp  quite  close,  and  we  have  (at  least  our  outfit 
has)  to  go  up  there  all  the  time,  filling  trucks  with 
supplies.  There's  a  little  wee  railroad  system  — 
narrow  gauge  —  which  apparently  takes  the  sup- 


AT  THE  BASE  35 

plies  to  different  units.  You  generally  get  through 
about  7.30.  The  meals  are  rotten  —  the  boys 
who  have  been  up  the  line  say  it's  fifty  times  better 
up  there.  However,  I  guess  it's  all  in  the  game ; 
anyhow,  I  feel  most  awfully  fit.  Last  night,  there 
was  a  concert  at  the  Y.  presided  over  by  a  chap- 
lain —  I  don't  know  his  name,  but  he's  about  the 
best  type  of  parson  I've  seen  for  a  long  time  — 
no  hot  air  —  seems  to  understand  just  what's 
wanted.  I  heard  a  fellow  say  that  if  more  parsons 
were  like  him,  there'd  be  a  jolly  lot  more  fellows 
go  to  church,  and  I  heartily  agree. 

Today,  we  all  had  to  attend  church  in  a  cinema 
building  over  in  the  English  camp  —  C.  of  E. 
service.  —  The  sermon  was  quite  uninteresting. 
It's  amazing  how  a  man  can  go  through  life  with- 
out getting  in  close  touch  with  his  fellow  men. 
This  particular  man  was  utterly  out  of  his  element 
preaching  to  a  bunch  of  Canadians  on  active 
service.  .  .  . 

Remember  always  I  am  thinking  of  you. 

13  February,  '16. 
No.  3.  Canadian  General  Hospital, 

B.  E.  F. 

My  dearest  Lai :  — 

At  last  I  can  write  to  tell  you  I  am  settled  — 
at  least  for  some  time,  and  believe  me  it  is  some 
relief  after  knocking  around  since  Christmas  Eve. 
.  .  .    We  left  England  quite  a  large  bunch,  but  are 


36         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

now  split  up,  a  few  here  and  there  to  different 
corps.  It  was  rather  hard  on  some  of  the  fellows, 
particularly  those  who  had  joined  from  some  small 
town  in  Canada  together,  kept  together  right 
along,  and  then  were  finally  separated.  Being 
with  any  one  you  know  well  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference in  strange  camps,  though  where  we  are 
now,  every  one  seems  to  be  so  jolly  decent  that  it 
doesn't  matter  so  much. 

Right  up  to  the  time  when  we  left  Sandgate, 
I  was  getting  more  and  more  disgusted  with  things. 
There  seemed  nothing  definite  about  the  work, 
nothing  to  tie  to.  Even  the  work  in  London  was 
more  or  less  unsettled.  I  began  to  think  all  I  had 
heard  about  decent  corps  coming  over  must  have 
been  a  myth,  but  at  last  it  seems  I  have  drawn  the 
right  thing  —  something  worth  taking  a  real  in- 
terest in  and  something  incidentally  to  be  proud 
of,  as  undoubtedly  this  corps  is  about  the  best  of 
its  kind  that  has  come  out  here.  I  haven't 
started  any  regular  work  yet,  but  expect  to  to- 
morrow (Monday) .  I  don't  know  what  it  will  be, 
either,  but  I  suppose  the  usual  thing  in  a  big 
hospital.  Of  course  it  is  all  Canadian.  The 
Y.M.C.A.  hut  where  I  am  writing  is  quite  a 
different  one  to  the  usual  run.  I  understand  it 
was  organized  before  the  fellows  left  Montreal. 
It's  a  private  one  and  right  on  the  ground,  very 
quiet,  very  clean,  and  altogether  nice  in  every 
way.     There    is    a  piano   of   course,   heaps    of 


AT  THE  BASE  37 

papers,  magazines  and  so  forth,  and  a  first-rate 
library,  also  lots  of  comfy  chairs. 

The  usual  run  of  camp  Y.'s  are  —  as  far  as  I 
saw  —  just  grocery  stores,  and  only  open  at  stated 
hours.  That  one  at  our  last  stopping  place  was 
a  terror  —  you  stood  in  line  waiting  your  turn  to 
get  in  sometimes  for  half  an  hour  or  so ;  to  sit  down 
was  quite  an  event.  There  was  a  concert  every 
night,  it's  true,  and  the  chaplain  was  one  of  the 
finest  men  I  have  ever  met ;  but  as  a  place  to  rest 
or  read  or  write  it  was  impossible.  The  men  have 
their  own  mess,  the  first  I  have  struck.  It  costs 
five  francs  only,  a  month.  Another  thing  which 
is  fine,  you  can  go  down  town  without  a  pass. 
It  means  I  suppose  they  can  trust  a  fellow,  which  is 
rather  more  than  nice. 

There  are  a  great  many  things  I  want  to  say  to 
you,  but  one  rather  hates  to  get  personal  in  a  cen- 
sored letter.  Twice  a  month  we  get  issued  with 
a  green  envelope.  You  are  on  honour  not  to  put 
anything  of  military  significance  in  it,  or  rather 
write  anything  and  enclose  it.  So  when  the 
"Postie"  hands  you  those,  you  want  to  look  out 
as  the  contents  will  be  uncensored. 

23  February,  '16. 
My  very  dearest  Lai :  — 

This  is  positively  the  first  time  I  have  had  a 
chance  to  write  you  since  the  first  letter  after  my 
arrival  here.     I  thought  there  would  be  a  lot  of 


38  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

time  for  reading  and  writing,  but  when  the  day's 
work  is  done,  you're  so  nearly  all  in  that  to  get 
down  between  the  blankets  seems  the  only  thing 
you  can  do.     I'll  try  and  tell  you  all  about  things. 

Firstly  —  you  mustn't  get  the  impression  that, 
because  I  am  in  France,  I  am  necessarily  in  the 
thick  of  things.  I  am  far,  far  safer  here  than  in 
England  for  that  matter.  In  London  there  was 
always  the  mild  excitement  of  a  Zepp.  raid  — 
and  the  rather  intense  excitement  of  dodging 
taxicabs,  while  crossing  the  streets  at  night. 

Here  if  a  Zepp.  passes  over  —  which  I  don't 
suppose  ever  happens  —  it  doesn't  condescend  to 
notice  us.  Even  to  see  an  aeroplane  is  a  novelty, 
and  "the  line"  might  be  a  million  miles  away,  for 
all  we  see  of  it. 

My  work  is  just  plain  work  —  lots  and  lots  and 
lots  of  it  —  and  then  some.  At  seven  a.m.  I  go  on 
duty  in  my  ward.  At  seven  p.m.  I  come  off.  In 
case  this  might  get  monotonous,  every  other  night 
I  "stand  to"  to  take  in  the  wounded.  At  other 
times  I  sleep. 

Of  course  this  was  not  a  real  hospital  in  the  first 
place.  My  ward  happens  to  be  in  a  building. 
The  rest  are  huts  exactly  similar  to  the  huts  you 
have  seen  pictured  in  Canada  and  other  papers. 

We  have  forty -five  beds;  two  orderlies,  three 
sisters  and  a  fourth-year  McGill  man  do  all  the 
work.  We  are  situated  up-stairs.  In  one  sense, 
it's  a  nuisance  because  of  the  perpetual  carrying ; 


AT  THE  BASE  39 

but  in  another  it's  better  because  they  don't  put 
many  stretcher  cases  there  for  fear  of  fire,  so  most 
cases  can  walk  and  help  around  the  ward  a  bit  — 
and  the  first  duty  of  an  orderly  is  to  get  "jake" 
with  the  patients  and  put  'em  to  work  without 
raising  too  many  kicks.  I  guess  you  might  like 
to  know  a  few  details  of  the  work.  At  six  reveille 
goes,  and  half  dopey  you  crawl  out  of  bed  (we 
sleep  on  the  floor  on  a  sort  of  loft  place) ;  six- 
thirty  breakfast  in  the  dining-room,  seven  roll- 
call  and  "break  away"  to  the  patients'  kitchen. 
Here  you  wait,  at  a  counter,  your  turn  to  get  the 
pans  of  bacon  or  porridge  and  the  two  pails  of 
tea  which  is  their  breakfast.  Fortunately  my 
ward  is  not  far  from  the  kitchen  —  some  are  the 
deuce  of  a  way  as  this  is  a  very  big  hospital. 
When  you  arrive  up-stairs,  you  dish  out  in  a  little 
back  attic  —  which  we  call  our  kitchen  —  the 
grub  for  each  patient.  Those  who  can,  help  you. 
The  night  orderly  has  put  out  the  tea  bowls  on 
each  locker  and  cut  the  bread  and  butter.  This 
done,  there  is  water  to  be  fetched  —  no  water 
is  laid  on  —  and  that  one  short  remark  should 
convey  a  lot  to  you.  You  can  guess  how  much 
we  use.  We  haven't  a  boiler  and  what  isn't  heated 
up  on  the  round  iron  stoves  in  the  two  wards,  has 
to  be  done  on  a  wee  alcohol  stove  just  like  the  one 
we  had  at  home. 

Well,  I  get  water,  heat  it  and  put  a  bunch  of 
patients  to  work  washing  up,  others  to  sweeping. 


40  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Then  I  beat  it  for  the  coal.  (All  these  things  I 
"beat  it"  for,  remember,  have  to  be  carried  up- 
stairs as  well  as  some  distance  away.)  After  I 
have  fixed  the  stoves  and  the  coal,  I  hustle  away 
with  the  dirty  water  and  the  garbage  to  the  incin- 
erator; and,  in  between  carrying  endless  pails  of 
water,  I  get  the  day's  drugs,  bandages,  stores, 
extras  and  about  a  million  other  things.  At  about 
ten,  I  put  some  guys  to  work  cutting  bread  for 
dinner.  At  ten-fifty  I  go  and  draw  it — serve  it — ■ 
and  so  forth.  Don't  forget  forty-five  dinners  is 
quite  a  job  to  handle.  They  are  darn  good  dinners, 
too  —  lots  of  it.  The  "afternoon"  —  each  man, 
chocolate,  cigarettes,  matches,  oranges  —  and  so 
forth.  (The  ones  who  help  get  a  bit  of  extra  here.) 
At  three-fifty  it's  tea  time,  eggs  (2),  same  old  bread 
and  butter  job,  washing  up,  etc.  Then  at  6  draw 
men's  rations,  bread  —  butter  —  sugar,  get  the 
night  orderly's  water  —  or  some  of  it,  and  gen- 
erally leave  everything  "jake"  by  7  p.m.  —  then 
bed.  (There  are  lots  of  duties  —  not  all  pleasant 
—  I  haven't  mentioned.) 

I  guess  you  are  thinking  I  hate  it.  Well,  if  so, 
you'll  be  wrong  —  I  don't. 

To  begin  with,  the  McGill  man  and  the  other 
orderly,  a  qualified  trained  nurse,  are  both  fine 
(gentlemen,  of  course)  and  we  pull  together  well. 

But  the  whole  thing  depends  on  the  Sisters,  — 
whether  they  are  grouchy.  Our  three,  also  the 
night  Sister,  are  just  great,  so  there  is  no  friction 


AT  THE  BASE  41 

anywhere.  There  is  so  much  work  to  do,  and  we 
all  dig  in  and  do  it. 

I  have  done  things  I  never  believed  I  could 
possibly  do  —  and  liked  it.  .  .  .  I  have  seen 
wounds  that  you  cannot  bear  to  look  at  —  ex- 
plosive bullets  which  go  in  like  any  other  bullet, 
but  come  out  leaving  a  hole  you  can  get  your 
fist  in. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  about  all  that. 
It  just  amounts  to  this ;  that  any  one  who  would 
kick  at  having  to  wait  on  and  work  for  these 
fellows,  after  what  they  have  gone  through,  isn't 
worth  much. 

I  have  mentioned  that  every  other  night  I 
helped  take  in  cases. 

The  Staff  is  divided  into  two  sections  A.  and  B. 
One  is  on  one  night,  and  one  the  next.  The  work 
goes  like  this : 

At  any  hour  during  the  night  you  must  be  pre- 
pared to  stand  to,  within  five  minutes  of  the  call. 
Roll  is  called  and,  half  asleep,  shivering  with  cold, 
you  march  over  to  the  Receiving  Room  and  wait 
outside  the  door.  The  Receiving  Room  is  all  lit 
up.  Down  the  middle  are  rows  of  tables  for  the 
clerks  to  take  the  names  of,  and  all  particulars  of, 
the  men  as  they  come  in.  At  one  table  are  the 
doctors.  Usually  the  first  to  arrive,  come  in  a 
big  motor  'bus  —  the  "sitters"  —  and  believe  me 
a  fellow  has  to  have  it  bad  to  get  a  stretcher.  As 
the  motor  draws  up  to  the  door,  the  party  known 


42  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

as  the  stretcher  party  rushes  up  and  helps  them  out 
and  over  to  the  Receiving  Room  to  get  their  par- 
ticulars and  assign  them  to  wards.  After  they're 
assigned,  a  man  takes  them  over.  (I'll  tell  you  the 
next  part  later.  I  don't  work  at  the  Receiving 
Room  since  I've  had  a  ward.)  To  my  mind,  the 
unloading  of  the  "sitters"  is  more  pathetic  than 
the  arrival  of  the  stretcher  cases.  They  come 
looking  deathly  ill,  in  the  electric  glare  —  just 
with  the  rough  dressings  they  got  up  the  line. 
Nearly  all  are  plastered  with  yellow  mud,  where 
they  have  lain.  Some  have  hardly  any  clothes. 
All  have  just  any  old  uniform  at  all  —  The  very 
antithesis  of  a  peace  soldier  —  None  have  slept 
since  God  knows  when  —  yet  they  all  attempt  to 
be  cheerful.  It's  either  inspiring  or  dreadful, 
whichever  way  your  nature  makes  you  look  at  it. 
No  matter  how  bad  they've  got  it  or  how  little, 
to  me  it  is  fine  and  wonderful  to  be  able  to  help 
them  when  they  are  here. 

Very  soon  the  ambulances  come  creeping  up  out 
of  the  night,  up  to  the  door.  All  is  well-ordered 
hustle  —  no  noise  but  the  purring  of  the  motors 
and  the  "Got  him?"  "Go  ahead",  of  the 
stretcher-bearers  as  they  lift  them  out  of  the  car. 
Each  one  contains  four.  I  was  desperately  afraid 
I  should  drop  my  first  one,  but  I  soon  got  used 
to  it. 

When  you  have  got  your  case,  you  —  as  gently 
as  you  can  —  take  him  inside  and  put  him  on  the 


AT  THE  BASE  43 

floor  where  he  is  interrogated  as  to  his  regiment, 
name,  etc.  His  wound  particulars  are  entered  on 
a  card  which  is  tied  to  his  uniform  up  the  line. 
Some,  of  course,  are  not  able  to  say  anything. 
When  a  ward  is  assigned,  two  other  fellows  carry 
him  there. 

This  goes  on  till  all  have  arrived,  when  the 
bunch  go  off  to  bed. 

Usually  hot  cocoa  is  given  the  fellows  while  on 
this  work,  which  helps  some,  as  the  nights  are 
raw  and  cold.  (Today  we  have  snow,  though 
the  trees  are  all  in  bud.)  .  .  . 

If  you  are  an  orderly,  when  the  fall-in  sounds, 
you  beat  it  to  your  ward.  Here  all  is  quiet  hustle, 
getting  night-shirts  around  the  stoves,  boiling  up 
Oxo,  preparing  beds,  getting  out  Blues  for  the 
patients  to  wear,  and  putting  pans  of  hot  water  on 
a  form  with  towels,  soap  etc.,  as  each  patient  has 
to  be  washed  before  he  is  put  to  bed. 

Immediately  the  man  brings  along  the  patient 
assigned  you,  you  jump  to  get  his  clothes  off  him. 
Sometimes  this  is  quite  a  job.  (Most  of  them  of 
course  are  —  well  —  lousy.)  You  chuck  the 
clothes  in  a  corner  to  be  taken  to  a  fumigator, 
giving  the  man  his  personal  stuff,  his  hat,  and  his 
boots.  Then  you  wash  him  —  at  least  that  part 
of  him  out  of  bandages,  then  take  him  to  bed 
and  give  him  a  bowl  of  Oxo.  Sometimes  you  have 
about  4  or  5,  all  washing  at  once  and  you  are  rushed 
like  the  deuce.     I  have  known  men  to  go  to  sleep 


44  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

during  the  process.  When  all  are  in  bed,  you  go, 
too  —  till  6  A.M. 

Nearly  all  our  patients  are  English  Tommies. 
They  are  of  every  possible  type  and  condition,  but 
they  all  look  the  same  to  us,  and  they  all  get  any- 
thing we  can  give  'em.  Class  prejudice  doesn't 
go  here,  and  we  have  no  use  for  a  grouch. 

The  first  question  a  patient  asks  you  most 
eagerly,  "Is  it  a  Blighty  wound?"  That  means 
one  bad  enough  to  be  sent  to  Eng'and,  yet  not 
bad  enough  to  keep  here.  The  "nice"  wounds 
are  the  Blighty  ones. 

Next  day,  most  of  'em  just  lie  and  sleep,  but 
each  day  they  get  brighter  and  brighter.  Usually 
the  first  sign  of  recovery  is  when  they  begin  to 
kid  the  orderlies  and  the  Sisters,  and  ask  "Ay, 
chum,  'ave  you  got  a  bit  more  bread  and  butter  ?  " 
The  answer  is  always  yes.  We  give  'em  all  they 
want. 

They  sure  like  the  Can"cw"dians. 

Everything  is  done  on  a  system.  Those  with 
shrapnel  or  bullets  in  'em  go  down  next  day  to  be 
X-Rayed.  Next  day,  it's  taken  out  and  handed 
to  them.     It's  just  an  everyday  business. 

26  February,  '16. 

...  I  do  not  exaggerate  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
do  not  sit  down,  not  even  to  meals,  which  I  snatch 
standing  up  in  between  washing  dishes  from  six 
a.m.   to   about    now  —  eight   p.m.      There   isn't 


AT  THE  BASE  45 

time.  When  the  doctor  comes  in  the  morning,  I 
help  with  the  dressings,  such  as  holding  an  arm 
with  a  double  fracture,  where  a  bullet  has  torn  a 
hole  that  you  can  see  right  through,  while  the 
doctor  cleanses  it  and  dresses  it.  At  one  time 
not  so  long  ago,  it  would  have  made  me  sick  in 
the  tummy.  It  doesn't  now  any  more ;  my  nerves 
are  jake  —  I  am  my  own  man.  .  .  . 

So  Wilson  is  going  to  help  strafe  our  friends  a 
bit.  I  am  sorry  for  the  same  reason  you  are.  Bill 
was  with  you  when  you  were  writing.  How  I 
would  love  to  see  her  and  play  with  her,  and  to 
teach  her  to  like  her  old  dad.  Home  doesn't  seem 
so  far  away  after  your  letters,  but  it  pulls  at  my 
heart  strings  as  I  could  never  have  believed 
possible —  But — all  may  have  been  for  the  best. 
Oh,  if  only  the  war  would  end !  But  I  am  afraid 
that  —  terribly  afraid  —  it  is  to  be  of  long  dura- 
tion. Do  you  remember  how  every  one  was  so 
optimistic  at  the  beginning.  I  prophesied  the 
coming  October ;  I  wish  it  was  to  be  true : 
But  —  ? 

27  February.     (Sunday  Evening) 

My  dearie :  — 

It's  Sunday  evening.  I  guess  our  occupations 
are  very  different  —  Just  the  same  we  can  talk 
in  the  same  old  way.  Since  I  got  your  letter  last 
night,  I  have  felt  great,  all  day.  It's  fine  to  think 
that  although  so  far  away  and  on  such  strange 


46         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

work,  I  have  my  one  real  pal  to  talk  to  in  the  same 
old  way,  the  one  person  who  will  understand 
thoroughly,  and,  I  hope,  sympathize. 

I  wrote  last  night  telling  you  of  the  new  con- 
dition of  my  work  under  quarantine.  Today  of 
course  has  been  just  the  same  round  of  work  — 
if  anything  just  a  bit  more  interesting  —  as  I  am 
beginning  to  be  entrusted  with  bandaging  after 
the  doctor  has  put  on  the  dressings,  and  gone  on 
to  the  next  case  where  I  have  previously  cut  away 
the  bandages  of  the  day  before.  They're  all  pro- 
gressing very  favourably.  .  .  .  Gee,  but  they're 
a  funny  crowd,  those  English !  Their  peculiar 
idea  of  humour  and  their  conversation  is  the  limit. 
None  of  them  can  get  over  the  fact  that  the  Cana- 
dians get  "four  bob  and  a  tanner"  a  day.  In  the 
bottom  of  their  hearts,  they  think  that  is  the  main 
reason  we  join.  Not  in  a  million  years  could  they 
grasp  it  that  these  —  McGill  men  and  all  —  are 
not  ordinary  working  men  like  themselves.  One 
fellow  said  today  in  his  peculiar  North  Country 
accent : 

"T'  Canadians  ain't  done  nowt  since  Eeeps  — 
ony  road."  And  another,  "Aai,  and  got  fower 
bob  a  day  for  doing  of  it." 

Some  are  grateful  for  every  little  thing ;  others 
won't  even  say  thank  you  for  every  possible  atten- 
tion. The  only  successful  way  to  get  on  with  'em 
(and  make  'em  work)  is  to  practise  a  philosophical 
kind  of  cheerful  kidding  manner.     And,  more  you 


AT  THE  BASE  47 

have  to  kid  yourself.  If  you  let  things  worry  you 
or  take  any  notice  of  them  when  they  kick,  your 
life  would  be  hell.  .  .  . 

France,  29  February,  '16. 

(Say,  this  is  leap  year,  eh  ?) 

(You  may  have  wondered  that,  if  we  get  only 
two  green  envelopes  a  month,  how  the  dickens 
all  of  my  letters  come  in  these  treasured  recepta- 
cles. Answer  —  I  buy  'em  at  half  a  franc  per 
from  the  English  Tommies  and  am  charging  it  up 
to  you.     At  present  you  owe  me  one  fr.  fifty.) 

My  dearie :  — 

It's  afternoon.  All  the  dishes  —  pots,  I  mean 
—  are  washed  up,  the  ward  swept  and  all  looks 
clean  and  fresh  and  tidy.  ...  (I  dunno  whether 
I  am  disclosing  information  of  military  impor- 
tance to  the  enemy  in  the  green  envelope,  if  I  tell 
you  that  this  place  was  once  a  Jesuit  College,  very 
old  apparently,  with  high  walls  round,  and  no 
modern  conveniences  till  we  came.  It  makes  a 
fairly  good  hospital,  I  think.)   .  .  . 

I  think  you'll  be  pleased  to  hear  I  am  "making 
good"  —  if  you  can  use  such  a  large  phrase  in 
connection  with  such  a  small  job.  You  must 
realize  that  only  a  short  while  ago  I  positively 
could  not  have  done  this  work  at  all.  I  can't  even 
now  realize  that  it  is  me  doing  some  of  the  things 
I  have  to  do  —  and  not  kicking  at  it.     I  never 


48  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

even  touched  a  wounded  person  before,  but  now  I 
have  —  But  wait,  I'll  tell  you  the  proceedings. 
About  ten  a.m.  the  doctor  (a  captain)  comes,  puts 
on  a  white  coat  and  rubber  gloves,  and  prepares 
to  do  the  dressings.  First  I  go  ahead  to  each  bed 
and  with  a  pair  of  scissors  usually  cut  —  or  untie 
in  some  cases  —  the  bandages  from  the  first  case 
he  intends  fixing  up.  These  I  chuck  in  a  pail  of 
water  and  between  us  the  Sister  and  I  hand  the 
various  dopes.  When  he  is  through,  he  moves  to 
the  next,  and  one  of  us  bandages  it  up  again.  (I 
never  put  a  bandage  on  before,  but  today  I  did 
nearly  all.)  While  I  was  holding  a  particularly 
bad  wound  and  fracture  (to  drop  it  would  probably 
mean  it  would  fall  to  pieces)  I  was  congratulated 
on  the  way  I  did  the  work.  The  sight  etc.  close 
at  one  time,  would  have  sickened  me,  but  now  my 
only  feeling  is  one  of  interest.  I  don't  think  you 
have  ever  been  in  a  surgical  ward,  have  you? 
Everything  has  to  be  done  with  the  minutest  care, 
everything  must  be  absolutely  sterile.  To  put 
a  pair  of  forceps,  scissors,  anything  even,  on  the 
table  makes  it  un-sterile  and  it  cannot  be  used. 
Everything  you  hand  the  doctor,  you  hand  with 
forceps.  Your  mind  has  to  be  on  your  job  every 
fraction  of  the  second;  your  nerves  must  be  as 
steady  as  a  rock.  Can  you  see  me  doing  it  ?  And 
doing  it  alright.  Sister  says  she's  going  to  give  me 
all  that  kind  of  work  she  can.  Of  course  the  other 
orderly  does  this  at  any  other  time,  but  he  is  barred 


AT  THE  BASE  49 

out  of  the  ward  until  quarantine  is  lifted.  Of 
course,  I  do  all  the  other  work  as  well :  clean  up, 
dish  out  the  meals  —  everything.  I  sure  have 
landed  myself  on  some  job,  yet  I  like  it. 

I  have  more  than  once  wanted  to  go  up  the 
line  —  and  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it.  Right 
now,  I'd  love  to  go.  I  have  tried  to  analyse  my 
feelings.  I  want  to  go  up  and  see  it  all  first  hand, 
I  know  exactly  what  the  work  is  —  but  I  want  to 
see  it.  —  I  do  want  to  see  you  and  Billy.  That 
about  explains  it.  Of  course  if  I  hadn't  Bill  and 
you,  I  would  go  tomorrow.  But  —  I  repeat  — 
I  want  to  come  home.  .  .  . 

As  regards  the  actual  work  —  I'm  "  doing  my 
bit"  more  here  than  I  would  be  there. 

By  the  way,  I  was  comparing  this  Canadian 
Gen.  Hosp.  with  the  English  one.  They're 
utterly  different.  Here  there  are  no  visitors,  no 
automobile  rides,  no  shows.  But  —  for  arrange- 
ment, order,  efficiency,  Canada  has  'em  strung 
forty  ways.  There  isn't  any  comparison.  (After- 
wards you  will  see  McGill  come  in  for  some  pretty 
high  praise.     You  see  if  I'm  not  right.) 

The  Sisters  and  doctors  are  human  —  they 
treat  the  patients  as  men,  that's  one  big  differ- 
ence and  a  very  big  one.  The  grub  is  far  better  — 
the  Tommies  nearly  had  a  fit  to  find  two  eggs  to  a 
meal.  Every  day  there  is  a  package  of  smokes 
for  every  man,  and  chocolate  and  fruit,  all  from 
Canadians  at  home.     Most  of  the  packages  have 


50  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

ready  addressed  P.C.'s  so  that  the  fellows  can 
thank  the  donors  if  they  wish,  and  I  have  impressed 
it  on  them  that  they  have  got  to  be  returned.  The 
English  Tommy  is  not  much  at  writing  to  a 
stranger.  Sometimes  I  write  P.C.'s  for  fellows 
to  their  own  people.  Gee!  it's  pathetic.  "I 
hope  this  finds  you  as  it  leaves  me  at  present," 
etc.  They  are  so  different  to  Americans.  Nearly 
all  the  eggs,  for  instance,  have  messages  on  them 
and  addresses  —  quite  a  lot  from  girls'  schools. 
Yet  the  fellows  are  too  shy  to  drop  a  jolly  card, 
I  bet  not  one  would  go  unanswered  from  the 
States.  .  .  . 

10  March,  '16. 
My  dearest  Lallie :  — 

This  will  not  be  a  long  letter  —  just  a  note  tell- 
ing you  I  am  K.O.  and  everything  going  well  with 
me.  .  .  . 

Things  are  —  I  would  have  thought  at  one 
time  —  the  limit ;  but  at  times  like  these,  and 
given  a  bunch  who  work  together,  the  almost 
impossible  can  be  done,  if  done  with  a  will. 

We  came  out  of  quarantine  K.O.  No  more 
cases  of  fever.  All  the  boys  were  sent  off  to  C.C. 
or  B.D.  (Base  Details  —  waiting  to  go  back 
up  to  the  front.)  Immediately  we  evacuated, 
we  filled  up,  and  I  was  still  alone  in  two  wards. 

I  wish  I  might  tell  you  the  details,  but  I  can't 
—  not   till   Apres   la   Guerre.     Sufficient    maybe 


AT  THE  BASE  51 

when  I  say  that  the  trenches  are  full  of  snow 
(you'll  have  seen  the  English  picture  papers),  and 
I  have  had  a  ward  full  of  men  who,  having  taken 
a  trench  from  the  Germans,  owing  to  certain  con- 
ditions lost  their  trench  waders  in  the  slush  and 
mud,  and  fought  for  thirty-six  hours  without  any 
boots  of  any  kind.  Of  course  you  will  understand, 
without  my  giving  you  details  about  frozen  feet. 
Even  then  we  couldn't  keep  them  —  only  a 
while. 

Believe  me,  it's  hell  up  the  line  these  days  — 
and  worse  is  to  come. 

We  haven't  our  water  laid  on  in  my  ward  yet, 
and  it's  upstairs  as  I  told  you.  But,  all  the  same, 
we  have  just  everything  else  for  the  boys  that  you 
can  imagine.  The  water  is  my  personal  trouble. 
What  I  meant  was  the  men  get  everything.  Thank 
God,  we  give  'em  all  just  the  same  :  oranges,  eggs, 
cigarettes.  I  wonder  if  the  people  who  subscribe 
to  those  things  in  Canada  realize  how  fine  a  work 
they're  doing.  The  other  day  I  sent  out  a  ward 
full  of  men  on  stretchers,  and  all  had  bed  socks 
and  nearly  all  pyjamas  —  every  blessed  thing  a 
gift  from  the  Canadian  Red  Cross.  Imagine,  if 
you  can,  a  man  piled  on  a  stretcher  and  trans- 
ferred from  the  warm  ward  to  motor  ambulance, 
taken  through  the  town  streets,  then  the  boat  — 
a  bitterly  cold  crossing,  then  his  long  English 
train  journey,  then  again  motor  ambulance  and 
lastly  his  new  bed  in  the  English  ward.     Don't 


52  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

forget  it  —  he  suffers  alright !  And  to  have  given 
one  blessed  pair  of  bed  socks,  which  have  helped 
a  fellow  on  such  a  trip,  is  something  to  comfort 
yourself  with. 

The  Sisters  have  sure  gone  some,  too,  recently 

—  and  are,  this  minute.  I  don't  know  how  they 
do  it  and  keep  up. 

Today  noon  was  the  first  day  I  have  eaten  at 
our  mess  for  three  weeks.  Quarantine  has  been 
over  for  some  days,  but  I  haven't  had  time  to  quit 
for  dinner  or  for  tea — I've  eaten  standing  up  in  the 
wards.  I've  been  as  much  as  three  days  without 
a  decent  wash.  And  yesterday  I  heard  (genuine 
news)  our  work  is  to  be  increased  one  third.  .  .  . 

But  that  is  only  the  beginning.  This  war  is 
going  to  go  out,  more  terrific  than  it  came  in. 

And  now  I  must  beat  it.  About  a  million  jobs 
await  me. 

Always  —  understand  —  I  am  yours  yours  yours 

—  my  work  is  for  you,  I  am  for  you. 

I  am  your  boy  and  your  husband, 

R.  A.  L. 

P.S.  Kisses  for  Billie  —  our  Billie  eh?  She 
will  kiss  you  for  me  —  give  her  Dad's  love. 

20  March,  '16,  France  1  a.m. 

This  letter  is  sure  disconnected  alright,  as  I  said 
it  would  be,  but  I  will  finish  it  off,  and  send  it,  be- 
cause for  the  next  few  days  I  can't  write  regularly. 


AT  THE  BASE  53 

The  other  night  I  turned  out  for  convoy  — 
luckily  nothing  doing  in  our  ward,  so  I  beat  it  for 
the  "hay."  I'd  no  sooner  got  to  sleep,  than  out 
I  was  pitched,  to  go  back  and  sleep  in  my  ward. 
Once  more  I  was  quarantined  —  a  new  fever  case. 
When  I  arrived,  they  took  off  the  night  man  — 
and  there  I  was,  and  am,  alone  in  my  glory  with 
two  wards  full  of  "  irrespressibles  ",  as  Punch  calls 
'em,  to  look  after,  and  can't  get  out  for  days.  I 
worked  that  night,  all  next  day,  and  now  I'm  on 
again  tonight  —  feeling  a  wee  bit  "dopey"  for 
want  of  sleep.  I  have  no  night  Sister,  and  no  one 
can  come  up  here.  Fortunately  everything  is 
going  swimmingly  and  there  isn't  much  to  do,  but 
to  take  a  few  temperatures  now  and  then,  and  look 
out  for  certain  bandages  slipping.  At  seven  or 
eight  a.m.  I  go  to  bed  and  will  have  a  Sister  (for 
days  only)  and  she'll  have  to  get  patients  to  clean 
up,  etc.  I  do  seem  to  find  it,  don't  I?  How- 
ever, each  night  I'll  be  able  to  have  a  talk  with 
you.  I  don't  have  any  meals  to  get  at  night, 
only  cocoa  at  eight  p.m.,  and  bread  and  butter; 
also  there  don't  happen  to  be  any  important 
dressings.  I  even  see  where  I'll  be  able  to  read 
a  bit.  For  the  last  hour,  I've  been  reading  the 
Bystander,  Sketch,  and  old  newspapers,  and  al- 
together enjoying  myself.  At  the  end  of  the 
largest  ward  is  my  little  kitchen  —  under  the  bare 
tiles  I  have  a  stove,  electric  light,  and  a  collection 
of  canned  eats  that  would  make  your  mouth  water. 


54         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

It's  on  the  kitchen  table,  on  a  writing  pad  that 
some  kind  person  in  Canada  has  sent  for  general 
hospital  distribution,  that  I  am  writing  this.  I 
have  the  door  open  a  bit  so  I  can  hear  if  all  is  K.O. 
in  the  ward  (you'd  think  it  wasn't).  Wounded 
men  talk  a  lot  in  their  sleep.  ...  ! 

"Swinging  the  Lead"  is  English  all  over  France 
for  the  boys  who  play  sick  when  they  are  well,  to 
try  to  get  a  few  more  days  in  Hosp.  Down  here, 
it  is  played  quite  openly,  and  is  a  joke.  If  the 
Sister  "falls",  well  and  good;  if  she  is  "wise", 
also  well  and  good.  Some  get  away  with  it,  some 
don't ;  but  it's  all  in  good  part,  as  it  can  only  go 
a  few  days  at  most.  The  boys  "kid"  one  another 
openly  in  front  of  Sister  or  the  Doctor  about  this, 
and  sometimes  it's  very  funny. 

22  March,  '16. 
France,  12.30  at  night. 
My  dearest  Lai : 

You  say  in  your  last  letter,  you  feel  blue.  I 
often  feel  so  blue  for  you  and  our  Billie.  But, 
dearie,  hold  on.  This  thing  can't  last,  and  we 
shall  win,  of  course  —  so,  —  stick  it,  same  as  me. 

The  convoy  ambulances  buzz,  out  of  the  win- 
dow, all  the  time.  Oh,  Lai,  who  would  have 
thought  such  things  could  have  been  in  our  life, 
so  short  a  time  ago  !  And  yet  —  as  you  say  — 
how  fine  to  take  a  part,  however  humble !  And 
even  I,  surrounded  by  object  lessons,  don't  begin 


AT  THE  BASE  55 

to  comprehend  how  things  are  up  the  line.  I 
think  I  know  what  things  are  like  pretty  well; 
but  all  the  time  I  don't.  I  don't  know  a  thing 
about  the  suffering,  the  monotony.  The  fight- 
ing is  nothing;  it's  the  continual  working,  the 
grind,  grind,  grind,  and  always  the  casualties,  — 
always  them.  When  I  feel  sleepy  and  inclined  to 
kick,  I  think  of  these  boys  here  in  their  beds,  and 
the  others  on  trains  or  ambulances  or  lying  wait- 
ing in  the  mud,  and  then  of  you.  .  .  . 

It's  cold  tonight,  there's  a  tile  or  two  out  of  my 
kitchen  roof,  and  no  matter  how  I  keep  the  wee 
American  stove  Whoop-up  (from  coal  which  I  have 
beside  it  in  an  American  Can  concern's  box),  it's 
shivery.  I  have  also  forty-seven  men's  dishes 
to  wash  before  dawn,  hot  water  to  get,  my  own 
dinner  to  cook,  lots  of  little  things  to  look  after 
for  the  bed  patients  —  and  the  general  look-out 
to  keep.  .  .  . 

1  a.m.,  23  March,  '16. 

I  thought  for  sure  I  had  something  to  say  to  you 
tonight  yet  somehow,  though  I  am  full  to  over- 
flowing with  thoughts,  I  cannot  put  it  —  or  them 
—  into  words.  Again,  as  you  see  by  the  time 
above,  I  am  writing  just  after  everything  is  all 
nice  and  cozy  in  the  wards,  and  I  can  at  last  get  a 
minute  alone  with  you.  .  .  . 

Do  you  know,  Lai,  I  feel  —  I  feel  sort  of 
"washed    out"  —  weary  —  words    won't    come, 


56         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

I  guess  I  want  a  change  or  something.  But  it 
makes  me  so  mad.  When  I  am  busy  with  my 
work,  I  hear  or  see  something  and  I  say  to  myself, 
now  tonight  I'll  tell  Lai  that;  but  when  "to- 
night" comes,  I  am  all  in,  —  and  dispirited  —  and 
cannot  find  the  energy  to  remember  anything. 

Yet  of  course  we  shall  win.  The  French  and 
Ourselves  are  a  victorious  army.  It's  in  the  air. 
It's  everywhere.     The  atmosphere  speaks  victory. 

Yet,  —  always  remember  —  of  course  —  it  was 
the  silent  British  navy  that  did  it.  That  was  the 
Ace  of  Trumps,  —  and  it  has  not  been  played  yet, 
though  our  opponents  have  known  now,  for  a 
year,  we  held  it,  and  it  was  the  winning  card. 

Have  you  seen  Bairnsfather's  book  of  cartoons  ? 
Not  in  the  same  class  as  Raemaker's,  of  course ;  yet, 
on  the  humorous  side,  awfully  good  in  their  way. 

Today  I  had  three  letters  from  patients  who 
had  gone  back  up  the  line.  I  am  keeping  them 
to  show  you  —  one  Canuck,  two  English.  It's 
good  to  feel  they've  remembered.  If  you  know 
of  any  particular  people  who  make  a  practice  of 
sending  cigarettes,  and  etc.  to  boys  at  the  front,  I 
can  send  addresses  of  men  leaving  here  to  go  back, 
all  the  time.  We  issue  cigarettes,  etc.  in  the  wards 
every  day  —  practically  all  the  packages  contain 
addressed  P.C.'s  to  the  senders,  and  I  know  of  a 
good  many  that  have  been  sent  back  with  thanks. 
It  isn't  so  much  here,  though,  that  kind  of  thing 
counts ;  but  after  they  leave  to  go  back  up  to  the 


AT  THE  BASE  57 

trenches  —  that's  when  a  fellow  needs  a  pal,  and 
we  try  to  keep  in  touch.  Canada  has  done  splen- 
didly, from  what  I  can  see  by  the  gifts  that  are 
passed  through  us;  but  always  there  is  the  need 
of  more.  And  now  when  we  are  coming  to  the 
final  round,  before  the  knock-out,  I  hope  the 
energy  will,  if  anything,  be  redoubled. 

What  has  gone  before  is  as  nothing  to  what  is 
to  come.  .  .  . 

In  South  Africa,  I  worked  hard,  I  thought;  but 
just  because  I  took  a  chance  on  my  life,  every 
other  day,  and  was  in  the  saddle  hours  on  end, 
that  wasn't  real  work.  This  is  work,  with  no 
excitement  —  no  relief  —  and  withal  no  credit. 
Because  at  the  showdown  all  our  work  will  be  for- 
gotten. But  about  all  that  I  do  not  care.  All 
I  want  is  an  end  —  to  go  home  —  to  you,  and  to 
Billie  —  to  play  with  Billie  —  I  am  tired  —  and 
I  want  you  both.     I  want  a  little  peace. 

But  that's  now.  Tomorrow  is  another  day. 
And  no  matter  how  many  days  of  this  are  in  store, 
good  work  shall  be  done  —  for  you  —  in  your 
name  —  by  me.     And  with  a  jolly  good  heart. 

It's  only  sometimes  —  I'm  tired. 

Darling  —  my  heart  goes  out  to  you  now. 

8.30  a.m.,  29  March,  '16.     (Pay  Day  ! ! !) 

Good  morning,  Lai !  — 

This  is  an  awful  time  to  be  writing  a  letter  to 
one's  wife  —  isn't  it!     Guess  I  must  have  got  it 


58  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

bad,  after  a  strenuous  night,  looking  after  two 
wards  of  wounded  men  all  by  my  lonesome,  to 
start  in  to  write  to  a  mere  girl  —  and  that  girl  — 
my  wife  —  Ye  Gods !  at  nine  a.m.  of  a  morn- 
ing!..  . 

Say !  the  other  day  you  said  that  we  were  all 
getting  better  for  the  war  and  a  lot  of  stuff  like 
that  (excuse  the  description).  I  see  where  a  large 
English  Daily  said  that  owing  to  the  new  stringent 
rules  as  to  the  supply  of  paper,  they  could  no 
longer  print  the  list  of  casualties  in  full.  The 
next  morning  the  paper  appeared  with  about  three 
inches  of  one  column  something  like  this:  "Cas- 
ualties 600  —  200  Dead—"  and  that  was  all. 
The  whole  of  the  opposite  page  was  devoted  to 
sketches  and  descriptive  matter  of  a  new  —  restau- 
rant dinner  gown  !  O  tempora  !  O  mores  !  What 
a  state  of  mind  the  people  must  have  who  run  that 
paper.  .  .  . 

By  jove,  I  wish  you  could  see  some  of  the  shops 
here !  They  are  just  spiffing  —  especially  the 
cake  shops,  "specialty"  stores,  and  jewelers.  If 
I  had  some  money  I  could  just  buy  the  loveliest 
things  for  almost  nothing  —  The  French  sure 
know  how  to  make  pretty  jewelry  and  wrought 
metal  things. 

Thanks  to  the  British  Navy,  all  the  stores  down 
town  run  just  as  usual.  The  flower  shops  do 
business,  the  meat  stores  have  everything,  also 
as  before.     In  fact,  you'd  never  know  there  was 


AT  THE  BASE  59 

a  war  on,  if  you  didn't  know.  Also  you  never  see 
a  young  man,  and  there  are  many  widows.  The 
Canucks  are  "0  tres  bon — la  la"  believe  me,  with 
the  Frenchies :  more  so  than  the  other  troops,  for 
some  reason. 

24  May,  Empire  Day. 
Dear  Lai,  — 

•  Today  is  Empire  day  —  do  you  remember  at 
school  the  old  rhyme  —  "if  you  don't  give  us  a 
holiday  we'll  all  run  away"?  And  later  we 
called  it  Empire  Day.  I  remember  as  kids  we 
were  always  taught  everywhere  to  know  Queen 
Victoria  as  one  of  the  most  wonderful  persons 
who  ever  lived  —  perfect  type  of  woman  and 
queen.  But  today  I  am  afraid  most  of  us  know 
she  was  only  a  very  silly  old  woman.  Some  one 
has  recently  published  a  book  about  her,  and  I 
suppose  she's  now  dead  long  enough  for  the  truth 
to  be  told  without  hurting  any  one  very  much.  It 
appears  she  was  always  dead  set  against  anything 
ever  being  suggested,  even,  to  the  detriment  of 
Germany  —  thought  the  Kaiser  a  great  friend  of 
England,  and  in  fact  was  altogether  just  about  the 
opposite  of  everything  we  believed  as  children. 
As  most  everything  is.  I  believe  if  King  Edward, 
wasn't  it?  had  had  no  children,  "Big  Bill"  would 
have  been  King  of  England.  Maybe  I  have  it 
wrong,  but  anyhow  it  seems  to  have  been  a  narrow 
squeak. 


60  A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

I  am  getting  most  awfully  keen  on  games  and 
have  developed  into  an  ardent  baseball  fan.  There 
is  a  league :  other  Canadian  Hosps,  A.S.C.  etc. 
We  have  a  great  team.  .  .  . 

I  was  glad  to  hear  S had  joined  the  Sig- 
nallers and  not  the  Engineers.  It  is  a  much  better 
corps  for  him  in  every  way.  You  ask  what  they 
do.  Well,  of  course,  all  that  flag-wagging  which 
he  will  be  doing  now  ceases  when  he  gets  out  here, 
though  they  might  do  a  good  bit  of  it  in  Shorn- 
cliffe.  (Imagine  how  long  it  would  take  Fritz 
to  pick  off  a  flag-wagger,  when  it  isn't  safe  to  show 
a  finger  over  a  parapet !)  It  will,  however,  put 
him  aufait  with  the  code,  and  help  if  he  should  be 
needed  on  the  telegraph  instruments.  What  he 
will  do,  will  depend  altogether  on  the  circum- 
stances —  luck  —  and  proficiency.  If  I  were  he, 
I  would  study  the  telegraph  instrument  hard  — 
wireless,  too,  if  he  could.  Most  signalling  is  done 
by  telegraph.  ...  A  lot  of  his  work  will  be 
fixing  telegraph  lines  and  some  are  used  as  "run- 
ners." It's  a  nice  decent  job  all  round,  and  he'll 
meet  a  lot  of  decent  young  fellows.  Yes,  I  guess 
he's  wild  —  a  bit.  He  tends  that  way,  and  of 
course  coming  here  won't  improve  him.  It  would 
be  lucky  if  he  could  land  a  stripe.  Then  the  little 
responsibility  might  steady  him;  but  he's  rather 
young  for  that.  Shorncliffe  will  do  him  much 
harm,  as  they  are  not  so  strict  there.  I  suppose 
he'll  take  his  leave  in  London  —  and  all  the  rest 


AT  THE  BASE  61 

of  it.  He'll  just  have  to  take  his  chance,  and 
have  a  fling  with  the  rest.  If  I  had  a  boy,  I 
shouldn't  try  to  stop  him.     I'd  tell  him  the  risks 

—  and  leave  it  to  him.     S will  come  out 

alright,  I  firmly  believe.  When  he  comes  to 
France,  things  are  different;  all  the  rough  stuff 
must  go.  A  "drunk"  only  draws  28  days  No.  1 
Field  Punishment  —  with  the  horrors  of  being 
tied  up  every  day.  That  you  may  have  heard 
of.    You  are  in  the  B.E.F.  then,  not  the  C.E.F. 

Later. 

The  baseball  game  was  just  great,  we  had  two 
generals  in  the  bleachers,  but  again  we  got  licked. 
I  wish  you  could  see  one  of  the  games  —  the 
grounds  surrounded  with  the  blue  hospital  coats 
and  the  Sisters'  uniforms.  The  Sisters  are  good 
rooters,  believe  me.  The  rooting  takes  a  more 
personal  tone  than  in  regular  games  and  includes 
a  man's  personal  appearance  —  his  uniform  — 
his  work  —  any  old  thing  at  all  so  long  as  we  may 
get  his  goat.  The  utmost  keenness  is  shown  by 
every  one.  I'm  afraid  the  cricket  eleven  takes 
a  very  back  seat ;  baseball  has  the  whole  show. 

6  June,  '16. 

If  you  recall  the  news  in  the  papers  during  these 
last  few  days,  you'll  remember  a  few  things  hap- 
pened to  the  Canucks  up  the  line  —  hence  no 
time  for  letters  or  anything  else  but  work.    Things 


62         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

were  sure  enough  lively  for  the  Pats  and  the  2d 
C.M.R's.  according  to  the  stories  brought  down. 

By  the  way,  I  saw  some  Signallers  amongst 
them,  the  first  I've  seen  come  in  —  at  least  the 
first  I've  noticed.  .  .  . 

One  was  attached  permanently,  owing  to  deaf- 
ness caused  by  shell  fire. 

It  appears  a  Signaller  has  the  grand-stand  view 
of  the  war  in  more  or  less  safety.  He  sits  all  day, 
and  all  night  too  I  suppose,  in  a  steel-covered 
dugout.  Over  his  head  is  strapped  a  telephone 
head-piece  and  he  receives  messages  all  the  time. 
That's  all  they  do,  lucky  beggars  !  I  wish  I  were 
in  that  corps  —  they'll  see  all  the  show.  I  see 
them  come  out  after  it's  over  and  am  told  about 
the  "turns",  secondhand. 

By  you  get  this,  the  sea  battle  will  be  old  stuff. 
Already  maybe  you  know  more  than  I  do,  but  to 
sum  up  the  main  events  so  far  for  these  months, 
namely  this  battle  —  a  mistake  has  been  made  in 
letting  Germany  get  in  her  story  to  the  world  first. 

Victors  do  not  run  away.  Germany  did. 
Beatty  held  their  main  fleet  till  our  main  fleet 
came  up,  and  therefore  suffered  heavily.  He 
prevented  their  gaining  their  object;  that's  all, 
as  we  had  it  here.  .  .  . 

I'm  on  a  new  job  which  has,  as  some  of  its  ad- 
vantages, two  afternoons  a  week  and  quit  daily 
at  4  p.  m.  Active  service — I  don't  think.  Church- 
ill was  right,  and  there  should  be  an  alteration 


AT  THE  BASE  63 

as  to  what  constitutes  a  fighting  unit.  Convales- 
cents should  be  doing  our  work  —  and  the  ma- 
jority of  us  should  be  up  the  line.  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  go  at  any  time,  but  transfers  are  for- 
bidden ;  so  many  had  been  asked  for  that  a  General 
Order  came  out  prohibiting  it,  excepting  in  very 
special  cases. 

10  June,  '16. 

Dear  Lai,  —  * 

We  are  all  to  be  inoculated  again  twice.  Con- 
founded nuisance.  My  turn  is  tonight,  then 
again  in  ten  days.  ...  In  Canada  and  England, 
a  great  fuss  is  made  about  forty-eight  hours  after 
you're  "shot  in  the  arm",  but  that  doesn't  go  in 
France,  like  a  jolly  lot  of  other  things.  At  five 
tonight  I  am  going  to  see  the  keenest  baseball 
game  ever.  A  match  has  been  arranged  with 
the  other  No.  3  Can.  Hosp.  .  .  .  It's  a  perfect 
day  —  and  I  feel  fairly  busting  with  good  health 
and  the  joy  of  being  alive. 

Now  and  then  something  comes  down  the  line 
in  the  way  of  an  extraordinary  wound.  This 
morning,  they  drew  —  with  the  magnet  —  part  of 
a  Ross  rifle  bayonet  out  of  a  man's  shoulder.  How 
did  it  get  there?  Shell  explosion  blew  it  in,  I 
guess.  Maybe  it  was  his  own  bayonet,  maybe 
some  other  fellow's  in  another  part  of  the  trench. 

Do  you  realize  how  much  goes  on  in  this  hos- 
pital?   The  operating  room  has  four  tables.     A 


64         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

fair  day's  work  for  one  doctor  is  thirty  operations. 
Two  stretchers  do  nothing  all  day  but  carry  cases 
to  the  X-Ray  room  to  locate  the  exact  position 
of  the  piece  of  shell  or  bullet.  Then  there  are  the 
medical  cases.  The  last  few  convoys,  I  have 
carried  a  fair  sprinkling  of  Trench  Fever  cases. 
While  on  the  subject  of  "patients"  —  you  know 
our  men  now  have  steel  helmets.  Well,  when 
you  see  one  with  a  hole  in  it,  and  hear  an 
accompanying  "story",  don't  be  too,  too  awe- 
struck. It  may  have  been  stood  on  a  parapet 
for  Fritz  to  make  a  souvenir  of  it.  Gee,  what 
yarns  we  shall  hear  after  this  war ! 

16  June,  '16. 
My  dearest  Lai,  — 

I  left  off,  I  believe,  where  I  was  to  be  inoculated. 
I  had  plans  of  "swinging  the  lead"  and  sneaking 
down  to  the  Y  for  a  long  talk  with  you,  a  nice 
quiet  read,  and  altogether  a  nice  easy  old  day  all 
to  myself.  Well,  "the  best  laid  schemes."  The 
inoculation  part  was  all  O.  K.,  done  with  "neat- 
ness and  despatch";  but  next  day,  instead  of 
coming  down  here  and  having  a  nice  easy  time, 
I  was  so  "  all  in  "  I  just  couldn't  get  out  of  bed.  .  .  . 
It  took  every  one  the  same  way,  which  for  some 
reason  comforts  me  a  little.  There's  another 
one  coming  in  ten  days. 

Well  —  you  "compray"  the  date  of  this  letter. 

I  suppose  your  papers  are  working  overtime 


AT  THE  BASE  65 

to  get  issues  out  —  once  again  the  Canucks  have 
had  it  at  Ypres.  .  .  . 

And  say,  Lai,  the  third  battle  of  Ypres  —  an 
old  story  when  you  get  this  —  was  not  —  is  not, 
as  it's  on  now  —  like  the  first  or  the  second.  An 
artillery  fellow  told  me  he  couldn't  hear  his  gun 
fire  because  of  the  bursting  shells  sent  over  by 
Fritz  —  not  just  for  a  minute,  mind,  but  for 
forty-eight  hours.  How  anything  lived  in  the 
front  line,  I  dunno :  but  the  Canucks  got  back  all 
they  lost,  and  more  to  it  besides.  Gee,  it's  amaz- 
ing !  If  you  could  see  and  hear  what  I  do,  you 
wouldn't  believe.  They've  shelled  Ypres  town 
again,  and  bust  the  Cloth  Hall  for  fair,  this  time. 

The  general  opinion  seems  to  be  that  the  troops 
against  them  in  this  scrap  are  nothing  like  those 
in  the  battle  last  year  —  lots  of  young  kids,  and 
many  with  no  heart.  The  officers  are  as  good, 
though.  One  German  officer,  captured  by  a 
fellow  I  carried,  killed  or  wounded  four  Canuck 
officers  before  getting  knocked  out  and  captured 
himself.  Of  course  our  men  would  have  killed 
him,  but  didn't  have  an  opportunity.  Only  when 
things  are  very  quiet  or  very  very  busy  are 
prisoners  taken. 

There's  a  man,  an  Englishman,  works  here.  He 
was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Germans.  When 
captured,  he  had  a  tin  of  bully  and  some  biscuits 
on  him.  Fritz  first  ate  these,  cutting  the  biscuits 
into  very  thin  slices  and  making  sandwiches  with 


66         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

the  bully  beef,  enjoying  the  feed  —  he  told  me  — 
with  the  greatest  satisfaction.  Afterwards,  they 
took  every  single  stitch  of  clothing  off  him  and 
turned  him  loose.  When  about  fifty  to  one  hun- 
dred yards  away,  they  all  took  pot  shots  at  him 
with  their  rifles ;  but  he  got  off  with  only  a  few 
slight  wounds,  wandered  three  days  and  three 
nights  till  he  fell  in  with  one  of  our  working  parties. 
He's  been  no  use  ever  since.  .  .  .  They  did  the 
same  thing  to  a  large  party  of  a  certain  Scotch 
regiment,  killing  many.  That  regiment  has  taken 
no  prisoners  since.     This  is  perfectly  true. 

Sunday  Afternoon,  18  June,  '16. 
My  dear  Lai,  — 

I  suppose  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  to  make  you 
understand  what's  doing;  your  newspapers  are 
telling  you  daily.  .  .  .  You  know  ten  times  more 
about  this,  the  third  battle  of  Ypres,  than  I  do; 
true  I  have  heard  a  hundred  first-hand  stories, 
but  by  men  who  are  not  exactly  out  on  observa- 
tion tours,  men  who  have  been  chiefly  concerned 
in  keeping  alive.  One  sidelight  —  I  have  heard 
it  estimated  that  Fritz  put  over  in  six  hours 
roughly  £100,000  —  $500,000.00— worth  of  shells. 
I  dunno',  of  course  how  accurate,  or  non-accurate, 
that  is ;  but  I  don't  imagine  it  can  be  far  out. 

Nothing  now  matters  but  care  of  the  wounded. 
Night  is  the  same  as  day  for  most  of  us ;  yet  there 
is  no  extra  fuss  or  bother,  only  a  patient,  instead 


AT  THE  BASE  67 

of  staying  here  awhile,  is  evacuated  to  England 
almost  right  away.  Maybe  he  spends  a  night  or 
two,  not  more. 

Saturday,  24  June,  '16. 

.  .  .  The  weather  here  is  most  unsettled  and 
must  make  plans,  at  any  rate  for  air  recon- 
naissance and  so  forth  up  the  line,  most  difficult 
to  arrange.  There  has  been  some  more  fighting 
up  in  the  salient,  though  things  have  slackened 
off  a  bit,  I  think,  from  the  fierce  fighting  of  what 
is  now  called  the  third  battle  of  Ypres.  We,  at 
any  rate,  are  not  so  busy,  although  things  are  not 
slack  by  any  means.  You'll  remember  gas  was 
used  again,  and  we  got  a  fair  proportion  of  those 
cases.  The  cough  they  have  is  like  no  other 
cough  you  ever  heard  —  not  dry  or  hard,  but  as 
if  their  throats  were  full  of  froth  of  some  sort. 
It's  fearful.  .  .  . 

I  wish  I  could  see  some  way  of  getting  out  of 
this  unit  before  the  fall.  Every  one  is  getting  out 
some  way,  mostly  commissions.  Both  our  ser- 
geant-majors are  going  —  a  sergeant-major  either 
makes  a  unit  a  great  one,  or  puts  it  on  the  bum  as 
far  as  the  fellows  are  concerned.  Luckily  we  have 
had  two  of  the  best  in  France ;  but  when  they  go, 
I  see  everything  going  wrong. 

21  July,  '16. 

Well  —  comprey  the  date  of  this  —  I  read 
your  letters,   between   carrying  stretchers,     Sat 


68         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

on  a  stretcher  in  the  road  opposite  the  Receiving 
Room.  My  life  now  (I  couldn't  tell  you  before) 
is  just  one  long  stretcher  carrying.  Night  and 
day  are  just  the  same;  there  is  no  break;  the 
hum  of  the  ambulance  is  with  you  all  the  time. 
Try  to  imagine  the  scene  —  remember  the  early 
articles  we  read  together  in  1914,  of  the  wounded 
in  the  hospitals  anywhere  —  everywhere  —  how 
you  step  over  them  —  how  they  put  them  just 
any  place.  This  big  hospital  is  not  a  general 
hospital  now,  but  a  Clearing  Station.  Get  that? 
The  recreation  hall  is  full  of  beds.  Every  place 
is  full  of  beds,  and  the  "walkers"  —  Lord,  they're 
everywhere !  There  is  a  difference  though,  in 
1916.  In  1914  we  were  retreating.  And  now  we 
are  advancing.  Then  the  hospitals  were  not 
prepared;  now  everything  moves  like  clockwork. 
Nothing  is  missing,  the  whole  thing  is  a  marvel  of 
efficiency.  Hundreds  of  times  a  day  I  wish  you 
could  see  it.  .  .  . 

Later. 

I  guess  I  didn't  ought  to  continue  this  letter 
just  now,  as  I  am  about  all  in,  and  still  have  twelve 
hours  ahead.  All  afternoon  we  have  "received" 
and  "evacuated"  —  sometimes  in  some  wards 
both  at  the  same  time,  till  you  are  in  danger  of 
picking  up  a  stretcher  which  has  just  come  and 
sending  him  to  Blighty  by  mistake.  (He  would 
worry  —  not !) 


AT  THE  BASE  69 

These  are  the  days  when  Fritz  is  trying  to  re- 
gain the  trenches  he  lost  to  the  British.  In  one 
case,  fellows  have  told  me  that  three  whole  divi- 
sions came  up  to  recapture  one  line  of  trenches 
held  by  one  division  of  British.  Imagine  it  —  not 
battalions  —  divisions.  They  got  'em,  too,  in  this 
instance,  though  even  as  I  write,  I  guess,  we  have 
taken  them  again.  It's  all  too  stupendous  for 
me  to  describe.  —  corpses  three  deep  —  one  can't 
realize  it  even  when  the  stories  are  told  by  men 
with  their  wounds  running  blood. 

One  thing  impressed  me:  though  this  rush  is 
something  hardly  to  be  believed  if  not  seen,  so 
perfect  is  the  organization  that  I  noticed  each  man 
got  his  extras  —  his  oranges,  his  cigarettes,  just 
the  same.  Another  thing;  those  I  have  carried 
—  Lord  knows  how  many  even  in  these  months  — 
I  have  never  heard  one  complain.  Indeed  all  are 
cheery  even,  and  always  endeavour  to  crawl  off 
the  stretcher  on  to  the  bed,  when  you  reach  the 
ward  —  with  the  inevitable  cigarette. 

As  usual  the  "Walkers"  look  the  worst. 

Do  you  remember  my  once  telling  you  about 
the  pale  mud  on  them  all  —  generally  from  head 
to  foot  —  how  I  noticed  it  much  more  in  the 
winter  and  how  it  was  missing  in  the  summer? 
Well,  I  noticed  it  again  today,  and  it  appears  that 
when  this  division  were  defending  the  captured 
German  trenches,  Fritz  by  some  means  flooded 
through  with  water  three  deep. 


70         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

One  other  thing :  during  the  winter  and  before 
the  "push",  all  the  patients  came  down  fairly 
neatly  bandaged  and  washed.  Now  the  blood 
stays  where  it  is  —  except  on  the  wound  —  and 
mud  and  blood  are  congealed  together  all  over  a 
man.  If  we're  busy,  what  about  the  Dressing 
Stations  who  send  to  all  the  hospitals  ? 

22  July,  '16  (Lunch  time). 

Just  got  up  after  strenuous  night.  Last  train 
didn't  come  down  till  four-thirty  a.m.  so  had  a 
little  sleep,  and  in  half  an  hour  am  going  to  work 
again.  Some  Canadians  are  beginning  to  come 
in  now.  However,  it  hasn't  been  Canada  that 
supplied  us  with  patients,  but  Anzacs.  Last 
night  Princess  Victoria's  concert  party  came.  I 
was  able  to  get  relieved  for  an  hour  to  go  to  it. 
I  couldn't  help  thinking  how  you  would  have  felt 
the  extraordinary  contrast  —  pretty,  well-dressed 
girls  —  flowers  —  music  —  and  all  around  tired- 
out  staff  and  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  patients 
all  fresh  from  the  front  line. 

The  thing  that  interested  me  as  much  as  any- 
thing —  you'd  never  guess  —  in  the  morning  I 
had  your  letter  where  a  paragraph  or  two  dwelt 
on  the  new  fashions.  It  may  seem  curious,  but 
we  never  see  any  well-dressed  women  —  or  rather 
I  should  say  fashionably-dressed  women.  It's 
curious  that,  in  a  town  like  Boulogne;  but  the 
French  are  taking  this  war  in  desperate  earnest. 


AT  THE  BASE  71 

In  appearance  they  are  chic  and  neat,  very,  but 
not  fashionable  —  if  the  women's  pages  in  the 
magazines  are  anything  to  go  by.  However,  the 
majority  seem  to  me  to  wear  that  large  mourning 
veil  you  may  have  noticed  in  war  pictures.  There- 
fore this  party,  just  after  having  your  letter,  was 
interesting  as  a  side  line  for  that  reason.  I  love 
pretty  clothes.  The  Americans'  skirts  were  to 
me  —  remember  I  haven't  been  in  London  or 
anywhere  for  months  —  something  of  a  shock. 
To  be  frank,  I  don't  like  short  skirts  as  they  wear 
'em  now  at  all.     I  think  they  aren't  even  pretty. 

A  point  which  would  have  brought  the  war 
home  to  you  —  right  in  the  middle  of  the  show, 
an  officer  got  on  the  stage  and  said,  —  "Will  all 
men  here  marked  Blighty  return  to  their  wards 
at  once  and  prepare  to  leave." 

Much  joshing  occurred,  as  the  men,  bandaged 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  straggled  out,  — 
the  big  joke  being  to  tell  those  on  crutches  to 
double  up. 

23  July,  '16.     (Sunday  afternoon) 

My  ownest  Lallie,  — 

....  Yesterday  afternoon  I  was  moving 
what  we  horribly  call  stiffs  into  the  ambulances 
which  take  them  to  the  morgue  downtown  — 
where  they  are  buried  in  a  cemetery  here,  French 
on  one  side  of  the  road,  English  on  the  other  — 
men   with  white  crosses,   officers  brown  —  men 


72         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

three  in  a  grave,  officers  one.  Each  coffin  is 
numbered  in  case  relatives  wish  to  claim  the  body 
after  the  war.  I  detest  the  job ;  it  seems  to  me 
most  pitiful :  these  poor  things  pinned  in  a  white 
sheet  with  a  label  round  their  neck,  with  name  and 
particulars  on.  A  while  ago  this  was  a  man  —  a 
man  whom  somebody  who  does  not  even  know 
he  is  dead  is  thinking  of,  talking  of.  It  always 
makes  me  think  what  awful  fools  we  are  to  detest 
one  another,  and  to  do  nasty  things  and  to  say 
nasty  things,  when  we  shall  all  so  soon  be  just  like 
that.  I  believe  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if,  when 
we  contemplate  meanness,  we  could  be  shown  a 
dead  body.  It  seems  so  silly  —  such  "bad  busi- 
ness" —  not  to  get  all  the  good  out  of  life,  when 
the  thing  is  so  short  and  particularly  when  we 
know  for  a  positive  fact  that  we  shall  all  soon  be 
just  a  lump  of  lifeless  stuff  of  no  account  any  more. 
Isn't  it  funny  we  don't  realize  death  more  ?  Gee, 
but  you  and  I  have  jolly  few  things  to  kick  at !  I 
thought  that  ever  so  strong,  when  I  was  tucking 
the  Union  Jack  around  those  fellows. 

I  don't  think  I  was  meant  to  be  a  soldier. 

12  August,  '16. 

The  heat  is  fearful,  a  close,  clammy  kind  of 
heat,  and  my  work  entails  funny  hours :  from 
6  a.m.  to  6.  p.m.  with  breaks  in  between  just  at 
inconvenient  times  for  writing.  .  .  . 

You  asked  about  Biggs.     He  went  downtown, 


AT  THE  BASE  73 

the  other  day,  and  never  came  back.  English 
and  French  police  searched  for  a  deserter,  or  a 
dead  body  in  the  sea.  In  about  a  week,  when 
every  one  had  quite  given  up  hope,  he  calmly 
writes  from  up  the  line,  if  you  please,  that  he  met 
some  boys  from  Vancouver  going  up  to  reinforce 
a  battalion  in  the  trenches,  and  he  joined  them 
and  is  at  present  in  the  front  line.  Can  you  beat 
it?  The  colonel  is  raving,  and  now  comes  the 
interesting  point  of  military  law  :  can  a  man  desert 
into  the  trenches?  What  looked  like  a  tragedy 
has  developed  into  a  huge  farce.  No  one  has  ever 
heard  of  a  similar  case.  The  only  point  is  that,  if 
nothing  is  done  about  him,  others  will  be  doing 
it.  It  would  be  an  awful  joke  if  he  got  a  Blighty 
one  and  came  here  as  a  patient  en  route;  wouldn't 
it? 

A  coincidence  —  have  just  put  into  an  am- 
bulance, en  route  for  Blighty,  a  pair  of  twins  — 
joined  together  —  wounded  together  —  here  in 
same  ward  together  —  and  now  gone  away  to- 
gether. 

I  daresay  you  know  —  have  heard  frequently 
—  that  the  army  is  the  one  original  place  for  wild 
rumours.  I  have  always  refrained  from  telling 
you  any  before;  but  I'll  break  a  rule  tonight. 
You  know  the  R.A.M.C.  has  moved  all  the  fit 
men  from  hospital  work  and  are  using  P.B.  or 
permanent  base  men,  the  fit  men  being  sent  on 
more  strenuous  work  up  the  line.     We  have  heard 


74         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

repeatedly  that  the  C.A.M.C.  was  going  to  do 
the  same,  but  so  far  nothing  has  been  done.  I 
was  talking  to  our  O.C.  to-day.  He  told  me  that 
all  fit  men  were  being  taken  from  here.  What 
that  means  in  detail  I  don't  know  —  but  I 
wouldn't  want  you  to  hear  suddenly  that  we  had 
all  been  moved  up  the  line.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  all  of  us  who  are  able  will  be  put  to  work 
at  more  general  usefulness  —  which  is  sound  com- 
mon sense,  as  you  will  be  bound  to  agree.  You 
will  hear  of  course  immediately  I  know  anything 
definite. 

Did  I  tell  you  we  had  formed  an  orchestra 
here?  It  is  developing  finely,  every  one  says. 
The  boys  pay  half  the  cost  of  the  instruments, 
and  after  the  war  they  have  them.  Last  night 
they  played  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  I  could 
hardly  believe  they  were  all  learners,  a  month 
or  so  ago. 

What  must  be  the  general  make-up  of  a  person's 
mind,  who  collects,  packs  and  mails  all  the  way 
from  Canada  a  parcel  of  "literature"  for  the  boys 
in  France  —  consisting  of  Literary  Digests  dated 
1912  ?  I  see  some  one  has  done  it  here.  Queer, 
eh? 

This  story  is  true.  When  a  man  dies,  his  effects 
are  sent  to  his  parents.  A  boy  died  here,  his 
simple  things  were  sent  home.  An  indignant 
letter  came  back  to  this  effect,  — 

"I    gave    my    boy.     You    have    had    him  — 


AT  THE  BASE  75 

why  steal  his  things?  Where  are  the  pair 
of  gloves  and  the  tin  of  zinc  ointment  I  sent 
him?" 

Monday. 

....  Our  speculations  about  Biggsy  and 
what  was  to  become  of  him  were  settled  the  other 
day  by  his  arriving  in  the  charge  of  a  couple  of 
military  police.  I  saw  him  in  our  little  "coop" 
—  which  is  a  wee  room,  probably  some  old  monk's 
private  room,  'way  up  under  the  tiles.  He  just 
looked  fine  and  was  all  enthusiasm.  I  got  about 
the  first  intelligent  "fresh"  description  of  the  line 
I've  had.  It  appears  when  he  went  downtown,  he 
met  a  couple  of  friends,  and  possibly  over  a  few 
drinks  (though  Biggsy  does  not  overdo  it  at  any 
time)  the  three  of  them  must  have  imagined  them- 
selves back  in  the  States  and  decided  to  beat  it 
to  the  front  line.  Only  any  one  who  has  been  in 
France  will  realize  the  absolute,  colossal  impu- 
dence of  such  an  adventure ;  and,  maybe  for  this 
very  reason,  it  succeeded.  Not  once  in  ten 
million  times  could  it  have  come  off;  but  it  did 
this  time.  Not  a  motor  truck,  not  a  wagon  can 
move  a  mile  without  being  inspected,  even  down 
here;  and  every  yard  you  approach  the  firing 
line,  things  get  stricter.  Nevertheless,  by  climb- 
ing on  a  rock  train  and  hiding  in  the  rocks,  they 
made  it.  When  they  got  to  the  reserve  trenches, 
they  enquired  for  the  particular  battalion  where 


76         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Biggsy  had  friends,  and  eventually  found  it, 
calmly  marched  up  to  the  Major's  dugout  (he 
was  a  pal  of  Biggsy's)  and  told  their  story.  They 
were  sick  of  the  base,  couldn't  get  transferred  to  a 
fighting  unit,  so  just  came  up,  and  there  they 
were  !  Biggs  says  the  Major  couldn't  quite  grasp 
it,  couldn't  seem  to  get  the  thing  at  all,  and  no 
wonder !  However,  he  fed  'em,  put  'em  under 
open  arrest,  and  near  became  a  casualty  through 
laughing.  They  were  given  duty  —  till  the  escort 
arrived.  The  things  Biggsy  told  us  would  make 
a  rattling  good  short  story  —  but  there  is  no  space 
here  to  tell  you  much.  One  thing  made  me  laugh  : 
he  was  determined  to  have  a  look  "over  the  top", 
if  it  killed  him  :  —  and  it  nearly  did.  Fritz  didn't 
understand  his  peculiar  case,  and  a  sniper  nearly 
finished  the  whole  thing.  The  main  thing  that 
impressed  him  were  the  rats. 

It  appears  they  positively  refuse  to  get  out  of 
the  way  —  just  march  about  the  trenches,  stop, 
turn  round  and  look  at  you.  They  are  every- 
where. His  trench  was  under  shell  fire  all  the 
time  —  He  says  it's  great ! ! ! !  When  the  escort 
came,  they  brought  him  back  another  way,  so 
he  has  really  seen  more  places  and  towns  than  a 
fellow  would  who  went  up  legitimately. 

At  his  trial,  he  was  charged  with  so  many  days' 
absence,  and  he's  now  languishing  —  or  rather 
working  more  than  particularly  hard  —  doing 
fourteen  days'  field  punishment  No.  1.  .  .  . 


AT  THE  BASE  11 

Next  day. 

There  is  more  than  a  rumour  that  this  par- 
ticular hospital  is  to  move  to  England.  It  ap- 
pears our  doctors  have  long  been  annoyed  that 
they  cannot  see  the  result  of  their  treatment  and 
operations,  as  no  sooner  a  man  arrives  than  he  is 
shipped  to  England  —  or  back  up  the  line,  if  he 
is  soon  well  enough.  I  imagine  that  their  wishes 
carry  some  weight,  and  there  doesn't  seem  much 
doubt  the  Unit  will  be  moved  this  fall. 

Now  I  haven't  the  slightest  wish  in  the  world 
to  go  to  England.  I  am  sick  of  this,  I'll  admit; 
but  only  in  that  I  am  sick  of  a  base  hospital,  so  I 
have  tried  to  engineer  a  transfer  to  No.  1  Casualty 
Clearing  Station.  They  are  located  at  Bailleul, 
which  you  see  on  your  map  is  a  few  miles  back 
of  the  trenches.  It  will  be  more  interesting  — 
more  real  work. 

This  is  a  good  unit,  one  of  the  best  in  France; 
but  —  I  don't  much  fancy  life  in  England.  I'd 
feel  all  the  time  I'd  be  better  at  home,  or  in  France, 
anywhere  but  Home  Service. 

I  don't  know,  of  course,  if  I  shall  be  able  to 
make  the  transfer.  It's  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
world  to  do,  for  some  reason;  every  obstacle  is 
put  in  a  man's  way.  But  I  think  I  may  make  it, 
and  I  really  hope  I  do. 

Don't  be  silly  and  think,  because  Bailleul  looks 
on  the  map  as  if  it  were  "right  up",  it  is.     It's 


78         A  CANADIAN   STRETCHER  BEARER 
located  like  this,    /^  /> — -\    \   and  protected  by 

'      HlU     Sallied 

hills.  Naturally  such  a  large  clearing  station  (or 
rather  stations,  as  I  understand  that  they  have 
recently  made  arrangements  to  accommodate  the 
enormous  number  of  one  hundred  thousand 
wounded)  would  not  be  in  danger  of  shell  fire. 

It  has  another  good  feature :  the  Clearing 
Station  Units  will  go  home  before  the  General 
and  Stationary  Hosps.  —  and,  even  if  it  were 
only  five  minutes  sooner,  it  would  be  worth  it. 

A  fellow  came  in,  last  night,  with  a  fractured 
leg.  He  came  down  with  a  busted  aeroplane 
from  a  height  of  two  thousand  feet.  The  officer 
was  killed.  It  seems  a  tall  story :  but  it  was 
particularly  marked  on  his  "wound  card"  and 
the  Royal  Flying  Corps  would  not  make  the 
statement,  if  it  were  not  true.  .  .  . 

I  have  got  another  green  envelope.  My  very 
much  delayed  inoculation  positively  takes  place 
tomorrow  night,  without  fail,  and  as  the  dose  is 
bigger'n  ever  this  time,  no  doubt  I  shall  be  a  sick 
woman  the  following  day,  and  not  even  in  the 
humour  to  write  to  the  dearest  one  in  the  world. 

Evening,  Friday,  25  August,  '16. 

It's  raining  and  one  can  feel  autumn  coming  on. 
The  nights  are  pretty  cool,  and  darker  earlier. 
A  month  today,  it's  your  birthday.  Maybe  I'll 
be  up  at  Bailleul  —  I  hear  they  have  aeroplane 


AT  THE  BASE  79 

fights  there  every  day.  It's  a  headquarters  for 
some  sort  of  'planes,  and  as  soon  as  Fritz  comes 
sailing  into  view,  up  whirls  one  of  ours  and  a  scrap 
ensues.  Must  be  a  great  sight,  eh?  I've  seen 
lots  of  German  aeroplanes  and  watched  the  shoot- 
ing at  them  by  the  French  anti-aircraft  guns. 
It's  exciting,  but  I  guess  the  other  is  more  so. 

Last  night,  they  put  the  lights  out  about  nine 
p.m.  A  Zepp.  was  over  the  sea;  but,  as  she 
headed  for  England,  they  switched  'em  on  again 
in  about  half  an  hour.  Doesn't  it  seem  remark- 
able how  they  follow  them  along,  and  time  them 
to  a  second  ?  The  wonder  is  more  are  not  brought 
down.     The  war  news  today  is  nothing  startling. 

Thursday  (evening). 

Today  is  the  day  we  receive  the  wounded  from 
these  first  big  counter  attacks  Fritz  is  making  — 
and  there  are  not  a  few.  Guess  I've  got  an  all- 
night  session  ahead.  I  took  one  fellow  to  a  ward, 
who  had  been  buried  two  days  and  blown  out 
again  by  a  shell.  He  says  Fritz  is  surrendering 
very  freely  because  they  are  going  to  make  one 
tremendous  counter  attack  and  get  back  all  the 
lost  ground.  This  wonderful  act  is  going  to  take 
place  in  about  seven  days,  I  hear,  and  evidently 
one  or  two  of  'em  have  heard  the  slogan  "safety 
first"  (Oh,  by  the  way,  you  may  not  have  heard 
it,  yet,  though)  and  decided  our  English  prison 
camp  looks  good  to  'em.     Don't  blame  'em. 


80         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Later. 

Did  you  read  of  Fritz  shelling  the  hospital  at 
Bethune?  It's  quite  true;  a  lot  of  doctors  went 
from  here  to  take  the  places  of  those  killed.  One 
fellow  who  was  wounded  is  here.  A  shell  actually 
dropped  in  an  operating  room,  and  killed  doctors, 
Sisters  and  patients. 

Altogether  Fritz  is  fighting  very  "dirty"  just 
now  —  very.  All  are  agreed  on  that.  All  those 
tales  you  read  about  their  dugouts  are  true. 
They  have  electric  lights  and  everything,  and 
have  undoubtedly  figured  on  their  line  being  im- 
pregnable. However,  it  isn't,  by  a  long  way. 
All  the  boys  are  agreed  that  the  Germans,  taken 
on  the  average,  will  not  stand  up  when  it  comes 
to  a  show-down;  though  they  are  tremendously 
clever  with  artillery  and  have  unlimited  am- 
munition and  machine  guns. 

I  see  you  got  a  letter  from  little  B .     He 

says  we  had  good  times  together?  Well,  Fta 
glad  he  enjoyed  'em.  I  never  saw  him  after  he 
left  the  hospital,  and  I  rather  think  his  times  with 
the  girls  are  imaginary,  as  I  heard  he  went  up  the 
line  almost  immediately.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
girls  in  France  don't  have  much  to  do  with  the 
English  soldiers.  It  would  be  hard  for  you  to 
realize,  living  where  you  can  go  where  you  like, 
do  what  you  like,  etc.,  that  neither  the  French 
people  nor  we  can  do  anything  or  go  anywhere 


AT  THE  BASE  81 

without  permission.  For  instance,  there  are  no 
autos  other  than  military,  and  a  few  taxis.  You 
can't  go  for  a  walk  or  a  drive  —  civilians  or  mili- 
tary. Every  few  streets  has  its  barrier  with  the 
sign  "Arrete"  and  two  French  soldiers  with  fixed 
bayonets.  Every  one  must  have  a  pass  to  go 
anywhere.  You  can't  take  a  room,  or  go  to  an 
hotel,  without  the  Secret  Service  are  on  you  right 
away,  and  require  your  complete  history.  You 
cannot  enter  France  at  all,  without  all  kinds  of 
passports  —  but  harder  again  is  it  to  get  out. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  man  or  woman  taking 
a  trip  to  a  near-by  town,  or  going  on  a  holiday,  or 
anything  like  that.  Everything  gives  place  to 
the  war,  and  the  French,  to  my  mind,  have  this 
business  of  running  a  town  under  military  law  to 
a  science.  You  cannot  stand  a  moment  on  a 
bridge,  you  must  be  off  the  streets  at  8.30  p.m. 
The  docks  and  all  stores  and  so  forth  are  sur- 
rounded with  barbed  wire  and  French  and  English 
police  with  revolvers  or  fixed  bayonets,  and  the 
place  is  alive  with  plain  clothes  secret  service  men. 
Active  service  is  ruthless,  and  there  is  no  con- 
sideration. 

7  September,  '16.     (Sunday  Evening) 

.  .  .  It  is  a  fearful  day,  just  pouring  down  with 
rain,  tons  of  it,  in  true  European  autumn  style. 
It  was  the  same  all  last  night,  and  I  guess  will 
be  the  same  till  about  next  July.     It  will  be 


82         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  REARER 

terrible,  if  it's  the  same  all  up  the  line  —  and  I 
guess  it  is.  Also  I  suppose  it  will  cause  a  halt 
in  the  "move."  I  wonder  if  you  at  all  realize 
what  an  amazing,  wonderful  thing  this  move  is, 
realize  that  the  Germans  with  all  their  so-called 
thoroughness  and  their  thorough  understanding 
of  war  according  to  their  own  rules  made  by 
themselves,  having  for  eighteen  months  prepared 
a  position,  we  have  gone  and  walked  right  over 
it  —  manufactured  machinery  and  trained  the 
men  to  do  it.  Remember  not  one  mistake  has 
been  made,  not  one.  Have  you  ever  thought, 
supposing  all  our  carefully  thought-out  plans,  our 
reliance  on  the  morale  of  our  new  troops :  any 
one  tiny  thing  had  gone  wrong,  all  the  world  today 
would  be  saying  that  we  were  gone  coons;  that 
we  could  not  beat  the  Germans  at  their  own  game ; 
that  the  sooner  we  quit  and  got  the  best  peace 
terms  we  could,  the  better.  Instead,  not  one 
thing  has  gone  wrong.  Our  amateur  soldiers 
have  proved  as  good  as  trained  men,  brought  up 
to  breathe  the  very  idea  of  a  victorious  war. 
Our  machinery  has  stunned  the  enemy.  All  the 
German  ideas  of  artillery  have  been  outdone.  In 
the  air  we  have  absolute  supremacy,  our  men  even 
coming  down  to  fire  on  troops  with  their  machine 
guns.  Only  the  other  day,  one  came  down  to 
engage  an  anti-aircraft  battery  that  was  bother- 
ing him  —  surely  the  height  of  cool  courage. 
Now  we  have  invented  a  "land  battleship";    I 


AT  THE  BASE  83 

have  spoken  to  a  boy  who  was  near  one  that  went 
into  action ;  he  said  all  the  Germans  in  the  mine 
crater  it  advanced  on,  threw  their  rifles  in  a 
heap  and  stuck  up  their  hands. 

All  this  is  being  done  without  any  "f rightful- 
ness." There  are  signs  that  Germany  is  "getting 
wise."  And  when  she  does,  we  may  hear  of  some 
inside  news  that  might  hasten  the  end.  We  do 
not  know  yet  what  kind  of  a  loser  the  German  is 
en  masse,  but  I  have  a  hunch  he  will  not  make  a 
good  one. 

But  to  return  to  the  beginning  as  I  said: 
supposing  just  one  calculation  of  ours  had  gone 
wrong,  we  would  all  be  feeling  it  differently 
today.  It  annoys  me  when  I  think  people  are 
taking  it  all  for  granted ;  it  sounds  kind  of  "  Ger- 
man." We  are  super-men,  sort  of;  we  can 
imagine  people  saying,  —  "Of  course,  I  always 
knew  we  should  win."  What  rot !  No  one  knew 
we  should  win.  No  one  knows  how  near  we  may 
have  been  to  losing  at  various  times,  and  now  to 
take  it  all  in  that  self-satisfied,  I-told-you-so 
way,  is  —  well  —  horrid. 

The  boys  who  come  down  hourly  don't  say 
"I  told  you  so";  they  know  beating  Fritz  is  no 
cinch.  They  say  he  is  outclassed,  is  getting 
weak.  They  know  we  are  winning,  because  — 
we  have  worked  for  it ;  our  soldiers  are  men,  not 
machines.  They  know  we  are  better  led,  our 
artillery  is  superior  —  in  a  word  we  are  better 


84         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

men   than   Fritz.     Moreover,   our   cause   is   the 
right  one. 

Later  —  and  I  don't  know  what  I  intended  to 
say  in  that  sentence. 

However  I  haven't  much  time.  You  will  under- 
stand that.  The  boys  up  the  line  don't  take 
prisoners  by  the  several  hundred  and  reinforce 
concrete  machine  gun  emplacements  without  more 
than  a  few  getting  put  out  of  mess  for  a  while, 
and  the  greater  the  activity  up  there,  the  more 
we  are  kept  busy  down  here. 

I  was  with  you  in  spirit  on  your  birthday,  all 
day,  and  at  night  my  head  was  on  your  little 
cushion,  and  your  photographs  were  underneath 
it  —  yours  and  the  young  You,  our  Bill. 

Never,  never  get  low-spirited,  down-and-outed. 
You  won't,  I  know.  It's  only  a  mood  when  you 
are,  and  passes  in  a  day.  We  have  no  reason, 
either  you  or  I,  to  be  down-hearted.  We  cannot 
claim  this  war  as  a  reason  —  else  half  the  world 
would  be.  Yet,  what  else  have  we  to  complain 
of?  Are  we  not  well  and  fit?  Have  we  not  all 
we  could  wish  to  build  on,  the  will  to  do  it,  and 
the  brains  ?     All  is  well  with  our  world.  .  .  . 

In  you,  I  have  all  I  need  —  all  I  want. 

Dearie  Lai  —  Good  night. 


m 

UP  THE  LINE 


Ill 

UP  THE  LINE 

9  November,  '16. 
France. 
My  very  dearest  Lai,  — 

The  last  letter  I  wrote  was  the  green  envelope 
one,  two  or  three  days  ago.  We  have  been  partic- 
ularly busy  one  way  and  another ;  one  thing,  we 
have  moved  from  the  convent  into  billets  in 
small  cottages.  It's  very  funny;  there's  a  long 
row  of  cottages  by  the  coal  mine,  just  cheap, 
rather  sordid-looking  places  all  exactly  alike, 
same  as  the  rows  of  small  houses  you  see  in  Eng- 
land. Each  has  a  small  back  room  on  the  ground 
floor  just  eight  feet  by  twelve  feet  in  which  ten 
men  live  somehow.  The  people  who  live  in  the 
rest  of  the  house  you  never  see,  as  they  lock  the 
connecting  door.  One  backyard  for  each  com- 
pany is  used  as  a  cook  house,  and  at  meal  times 
you  file  over  with  your  mess  tin.  Of  course, 
some  houses  are  better  than  others,  cleaner; 
and  maybe  one  is  lucky  enough  to  get  the  French 
people  to  boil  coffee  in  the  morning  and  odd  things 
like  that,  but  those  places  are  very  rare,     Mostly 

87 


88         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

all  the  people  are  phlegmatically  indifferent,  and 
don't  seem  to  take  any  interest  in  their  own  lines, 
any  more  than  any  one  else.  It's  rather  a  good 
thing  we  are  so  closely  packed,  as,  the  floor  being 
brick  and  the  places  fearfully  draughty,  you  have  a 
better  chance  of  keeping  warm  at  night.  The 
weather  is  awful ;  dull,  heavy  skies,  rain  most  of 
the  time,  and  mud.  We'd  be  wet  all  the  time, 
but  we  got  an  old  can,  punched  holes  in  it,  and 
have  made  a  brazier  for  the  room.  It's  remark- 
able what  a  difference  a  little  fire  makes. 

The  other  night,  we  went  on  a  working  party 
up  close  to  the  lines.  You  wear  your  tin  hat  on 
these  expeditions,  and  go  at  night.  After  you've 
walked  six  miles  or  more,  the  latter  part  with  a 
shovel  and  maybe  a  pick  as  well,  you  feel  as  though 
you  had  enough,  even  before  you  start  the  night's 
work.  On  the  way,  we  passed  through  a  fair- 
sized  village,  every  single  house  which  I  saw  being 
shattered,  the  church  in  the  square  just  having 
the  four  walls  standing.  Of  course  wrecked 
villages  have  become  monotonous ;  but  when  you 
see  one  first,  the  desolation  and  waste  of  it  all 
strikes  you  very  forcibly.  A  thing  I  noticed 
particularly  was  that,  at  a  cross  road  where  all 
the  corner  houses  were  smashed  flat,  a  little 
wayside  shrine,  like  you  see  in  every  village,  with 
its  large  crucifix  was  absolutely  untouched.  I 
hear  this  is  very  common  all  along  the  line. 
Curious,  isn't  it?    When  we  arrived  this  far,  the 


UP  THE  LINE  89 

flare  lights  sent  up  by  Fritz  and  ourselves  were  very 
bright,  and  looked  only  about  a  block  away ;  but  of 
course  they  were  much  more.  These  are  sent  up 
continually  all  along  the  line,  playing  in  the  air  over 
"No  Man's  Land"  for  a  few  seconds,  lighting  up 
everything  very  distinctly.  Quite  a  little  firework 
display ;  but  you  don't  think  of  it  that  way. 

Our  work  was  digging  a  narrow  trench  to  put  a 
water  pipe  into  the  front  line.  They  have  had  it 
all  along;  but  recently  the  frost  froze  it  up,  so 
the  engineers  wanted  it  buried  a  couple  of  feet. 
We  all  strung  out  and  were  given  twenty  feet 
apiece  to  dig.  I  guess  you  would  have  thought  it 
rather  weird,  digging  away  there  in  the  dark,  in 
the  distance  machine  guns  tapping  away  exactly 
like  woodpeckers.  They  loose  off  a  few  rounds 
every  few  minutes  on  roads,  and  where  they 
think  there  might  be  working,  or  ration  parties, 
like  ours ;  also  now  and  then  you  hear  the  sharper 
crack  of  a  solitary  rifle  —  a  sniper  at  work ;  but 
you  hardly  notice  these  things.  You  are  too  busy 
with  your  bit  of  work  and  getting  home  again. 
By  the  time  you  have  done  the  return  march  you 
feel  as  though  you  had  done  a  pretty  good  night's 
job,  the  march  being  by  far  the  hardest  part. 

Sunday  (evening). 

This  morning  we  were  out  on  the  range.  I  did 
fairly  well  at  rapid  firing,  but  rotten  at  the  other 
part  where  you  take  your  time.     Later,  we  were 


90         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

at  the  bombing  school  —  live  bombs,  now,  of 
course.  This  evening  we  get  paid  —  fifteen 
francs.  Hardly  a  fortune,  is  it  ?  But  enough  to 
buy  two  decent  feeds,  anyway.  While  on  that 
subject,  I  cannot  impress  on  you  too  forcibly  the 
importance  of  parcels,  regularly  and  often.  Down 
at  Boulogne,  a  parcel  of  eats  didn't  amount  to 
much;  but  up  here  they  are  just  Godsends, 
absolutely.  Down  there,  if  you  wanted  anything 
nice  you  could  get  almost  anything  from  a  Sister 
or  an  orderly,  but  here  the  rations  are  the  same 
every  day,  and  awfully  monotonous;  cheese, 
jam,  stew  —  that's  all.  And  lots  of  hard  work 
all  the  time.  Most  boys  get  parcels  very  often 
indeed,  and  naturally  your  own  crowd  all  share 
up  alike.  Last  night,  one  of  us  got  a  cake, 
chocolate,  cafe  au  lait,  etc.,  and  sitting  round  the 
old  brazier  we  were  quite  happy  for  a  time. 
Even  if  you  had  a  lot  of  money,  you  couldn't 
buy  much,  not  in  a  small  village  like  this.  There 
are  Y's,  of  course;  but  they  are  too  far  away, 
when  you  come  in  late  at  night  and  tired.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  will  you  find  out  if  there  are  any  books 
on  the  subject  of  trench  first-aid?  It  will  have 
to  be  some  that  were  written  since  the  war  of 
course.  The  first-aid  books  generally  sold  are 
no  good  for  up  the  line,  as  they  don't  take  account 
of  conditions  under  which  the  work  has  to  be  done. 
If  you  find  anything  that  you  think  may  be  of 
use,  I  should  like  to  have  it, 


UP  THE  LINE  91 

Let  me  know  that  you  are  happy  and  well. 
Remember,  always,  I  am  yours. 

—  Battalion  Canadians  B.E.F. 
France,  13  November,  '16. 

My  very  dearest  Laly  — 

This  morning  we  arrived  at  our  destination 
behind  the  lines.  We  didn't  do  anything  but 
loaf  around  today  after  we  arrived,  and  tonight  I 
discovered  this  Y.  about  two  kilometres  from  our 
billets,  so  I  could  write  to  you.  First,  dear,  you 
will  be  glad  to  hear  I  am  particularly  well  — 
couldn't  be  better.  Things  seem  to  improve  all 
round  as  the  days  go  by.  We  are  billeted  in  a 
school,  have  two  blankets  —  quite  ample  —  each, 
and  the  grub  is  first  rate.  Havre  is  like  a  bad 
dream  already.  The  train  journey  also  improved. 
There  was  more  room  after  each  change,  and  the 
weather  is  lovely.  Boulogne,  on  looking  back 
on  it,  seems  more  of  a  slothful  existence  every 
day;  no  contrast  could  be  greater  than  the  life 
there  and  here.  Of  course  no  fit  man,  not  having 
special  training  for  particular  work  necessitating 
his  staying  at  the  base,  has  any  right  there 
at  all,  in  my  opinion.  This  is  most  certainly 
my  place. 

All  along  in  the  journey,  I  tried  to  collect 
impressions  to  give  you,  and  I  cannot  help  but 
smile  when  I  think  what  they  were.  .  .  .     On 


92         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

the  whole  trip,  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  the 
war  mentioned.  There  was  a  poker  game  at 
each  end  of  the  box  car  which  seemed  to  be  the 
greatest  attraction.  The  conversation  was  mostly 
kicking  on  the  room,  the  grub,  the  army  in 
general  —  every  one  in  the  army  kicks  all  the 
time.  As  we  approached  the  line,  the  guns  be- 
came audible  and  I  am  half  ashamed  to  say  I 
felt  a  thrill.  No  one  else  even  mentioned  them. 
Even  right  here  in  what  is,  in  manner  of  speaking, 
only  a  stone's  throw  from  the  firing  line,  life  is 
more  peaceful  than  in  Boulogne.  Kids  play  in 
the  streets  ;  the  shops  are  lighted  up  —  dimly  — 
but  still  lit;  this  afternoon  I  heard  "school" 
going  on  in  part  of  the  building  in  which  we  are 
billeted.  The  only  difference  I  can  see  in  the 
traffic  —  to  that  of  the  base  —  is  that  the  A.S.C. 
drivers  have  a  steel  helmet  strapped  somewhere 
near  the  seat.  .  .  . 

I  shall  anxiously  await  every  letter  from  you  — 
I  am  so  worried  as  to  how  you  will  bear  up  —  you 
positively  must  not  worry,  dear,  a  lot.  You  know 
in  the  first  place  how  it  upsets  your  health  and 
again  you  must  be  brave  for  Billie  and  me.  She 
must  not  see  you  not  being  brave  —  and  /  want 
always  to  think  of  you  with  your  head  up,  taking 
whatever  is  God's  will,  like  the  brave  woman  I 
know  you  so  well  to  be. 

What  deep  satisfaction  will  be  ours,  when  this 
war  is  won,  that  we  both  did  all  we  could.  .  .  . 


UP  THE  LINE  93 

My  heart  and  mind  are  with  you  always,  dear 
—  literally  always  —  more  now  than  ever  do  we 
understand  and  appreciate  our  great  love. 

Never  be  downhearted  —  never  gloomy  —  God 
must  be  on  our  country's  side. 

Kiss  our  Billie  many,  many  times  for  me. 

17  November,  '16. 
My  dearest  Lallie :  — 

Today  has  been  bitterly  cold  —  roads  all 
frozen  hard,  almost  like  Canada.  It  must  be  the 
very  devil  in  the  trenches.  I  remember  it  was 
rotten  last  February ;  but  then  it  was  mostly  wet, 
slushy  snow,  not  hard,  dry  cold  like  this.  We  are 
somewhere  between  Arras  and  Bethune.  Late 
this  afternoon,  I  went  with  some  of  the  boys  for 
a  long  hike  to  see  if  we  could  see  "something." 
We  jumped  an  auto  truck  and  went  several 
kilometres  in  that.  We  wanted  to  get  closer  up 
the  lines;  but  we  didn't  make  it  and  all  we  saw 
was  a  bunch  of  aeroplanes  being  shelled  with 
shrapnel.  We  came  back  in  an  old  French  farm 
wagon.  Every  village  and  hamlet  —  quiet  old- 
world  places,  two  years  ago  —  is  now  full  of  troops, 
wagons,  water  carts,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
war.  All  seems  to  work  like  clock  work.  Every 
one  seems  just  to  have  his  own  job  and  be  doing  it 
cheerfully  without  fuss  —  Wherever  you  look  on 
every  side  road  are  lines  of  big  auto  trucks,  and 
in  and  out  go  fast  motor  cars  and  auto  bikes  carry- 


94         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

ing  the  despatch  riders.  The  roads  are  in  splendid 
condition,  kept  so  by  Fritzies  —  who  seem  per- 
fectly happy  and  contented.  Each  one  carries  a 
mess  tin  like  ours,  and  over  his  shoulder  a  gas 
helmet.  Even  the  kids  in  the  street  carry  them. 
In  places,  too,  are  gongs  marked  "gas  alarm"  in 
case  it  should  come  over.  At  all  cross  roads, 
everywhere,  is  a  sentry  to  direct  traffic,  etc.  The 
organization  seems  perfect,  and  everywhere  you 
breathe  the  utmost  confidence  in  the  very  air. 

During  our  walk  we  dropped  in  on  the  6th 
Field  Ambulance  boys  —  that  is,  the  Ambulance 
attached  to  our  Brigade,  the  6th.  They  are 
billeted  in  a  whacking  great  French  chateau.  In 
peace  time,  no  doubt,  it  was  a  beautiful  home. 
The  conservatory  is  now  the  men's  mess,  and 
leading  from  that,  in  what  I  imagine  must  have 
been  the  drawing  room,  a  room  all  panelled  in 
marble,  are  rows  of  stretchers  on  old  packing 
cases.  It's  "a  ward  where  the  6th  boys  look  after 
sick  cases.  Two  of  the  stretchers  were  occupied  by 
Fritzies  —  both  of  them  all  smiles.  One  said  he 
had  been  just  six  days  from  leaving  home  to 
getting  captured.  They  said  they  were  tickled 
to  death  to  be  out  of  it. 

Field  Ambulances  are  divided  into  companies 
or  sections  and  take  turns  going  into  the  trenches. 
These  boys  go  in  next  week  again.  Of  course 
they  live  and  have  everything  much  better  than 
we  do ;  it  has  always  seemed  peculiar  to  me  that 


UP  THE  LINE!  95 

the  infantry,  who  after  all  really  win  the  war  — 
have  to  take  all  the  dirty  end  of  everything  — 
grub  —  billets  —  every  darn  thing.  And,  after 
it's  all  over,  the  boys  who  go  home  behind  the  brass 
band  will  be  all  these  base  and  staff  boys ;  the 
fellows  who  won  the  war  will  mostly  be  pushing 
daisies  right  here  in  France.  .  .  .  This  district 
hasn't  been  shelled  much  —  Adjoining  us  is  a 
coal  mine;  a  shell  has  taken  the  big  chimney 
half  off  —  a  darn  good  shot,  if  it  wasn't  a  fluke,  — 
but  the  mine  is  doing  business  night  and  day  as 
usual ;  you  can  see  three  or  four  of  these  mines 
round  about  and  all  are  going  full  blast. 

18  November,  '16. 

Today  broke  bitterly  cold  —  real  Canuck 
weather  with  some  snow.  Luckily  we  have 
those  sleeveless  leather  coats  which  turn  the  wind 
fine. 

Another  fellow  and  I  thought  we  would  like 
to  find  the  29th  layout  this  a.m.  Well,  we 
walked  I  bet  ten  miles  over  hill  and  dale.  Once 
we  hit  a  village  which  had  been  all  shelled  to 
pieces.  The  big  chateau  was  uninhabited  and 
looked  most  desolate,  all  broken  pieces,  with  the 
bell  rope  at  the  big  entrance  gates  hanging  swing- 
ing in  the  wind,  and  holes  in  the  roof,  the  lovely 
gardens  all  weeds  —  a  lovely  place  utterly  ruined. 
Eventually  we  found  the  boys  camped  in  a  little 
wood.     It  was  the  first  camp  of  its  kind  I  had 


96         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

seen,  and  the  first  impression  I  had  was  a  lumber 
camp — long,  low,  brown  bunk  houses,  cook  houses, 
almost  exactly  the  same.  The  bunk  houses  are 
built  with  earth  floor,  on  either  side  rows  of 
rather  flimsy  bunks.  Wire  netting  forms  the 
mattress.  At  either  end  were  a  couple  of 
braziers  going.  They  were  very  dark  —  most 
every  bunk  had  a  candle  stuck  on  the  side.  The 
boys  were  all  as  cheerful  as  a  bunch  could  be. 
They  say  it  is  regular  home  after  the  Somme. 
They  were  out  of  the  trenches  two  days,  only 
sustaining  two  casualties,  those  being  two  rein- 
forcements whose  curiosity  made  them  want  to 
look  over  the  top. 

28  November,  '16. 
My  very  dearest  Lai :  — 

I  have  just  got  a  parcel  from  you  —  a  box  of 
cigarettes  —  and  they  could  hardly  have  come 
at  a  better  time.  As  it  happened,  I  didn't  have 
a  blessed  thing  left  to  smoke,  and  was  wondering 
what  I  was  going  to  do,  when  the  fellow  came 
around  with  the  parcels.  Thank  you  ever  so 
much,  dear. 

I  guess  you  will  notice  that  my  letters  now  are 
rather  hasty  and  all  unconnected.  Try  to  bear  it 
always  in  mind  —  because  I  guess  they  will  get 
worse,  if  anything  —  there  is  no  place  to  write  at 
all  in  the  billets,  no  tables,  chairs,  or  anything 
like  that.     You  eat  out  of  your  mess  tin,  sitting 


UP  THE  LINE  97 

on  the  floor.  There  is  a  Y. ;  but  it's  too  far  off 
to  go  often,  and  moreover  you  get  pretty  tired 
by  night.  Last  night,  I  wrote  you,  as  usual,  on 
my  knee  —  on  the  floor.  All  my  letters  are 
written  under  difficulties,  and  to  have  a  mind  at 
peace  and  in  mood  for  writing  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Last  night,  it  appears,  Fritz  either  put  an 
extra  heavy  shell  over,  or  exploded  a  mine  or 
something.  Anyhow,  the  boys  in  our  room  say 
they  woke  to  the  sound  of  windows  breaking 
and  the  ground  shaking;  but  I  was  so  beastly 
tired,  I  slept  peacefully  on  and  never  heard  a 
sound.  Always  heavy  on  the  sleep  stunt;  re- 
member ? 

Evening. 

A  heavy  fog  came  up  before  we  quit  work  this 
afternoon  and  it  turned  wretchedly  cold,  so  I  am 
going  to  turn  in  early,  hoping  to  get  warm  that 
way.  There  was  very  little  mail  tonight.  It 
worries  me  so  to  know,  as  I  do,  that  you  are 
worrying,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  I  cannot  write  — 
talk,  we  used  to  call  it  —  as  I  want  to.  The 
thoughts  are  there,  but  the  expression  —  the 
way  to  put  them  on  paper,  simply  won't  come.  I 
don't  suppose  they  will  ever  come,  until  this  is 
all  over.  I  know  how  you  will  miss  it  too  —  but 
I  am  happy  in  the  knowledge  that  we  are  in 
such  complete  accord  that  you  will  realize  — 
everything.     The  things  we  discussed  and  planned 


98         A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

and  debated  over  must  now  lie  over  indefinitely. 
It  is  quite  impossible,  under  these  conditions,  to 
give  much  thought  to  anything  but  the  barest 
facts  of  just  living,  eating,  sleeping,  working.  But 
the  intellectual  side  of  life,  the  beautiful  things, 
the  clever  things,  you  simply  never  think  of  them. 
The  reason  I  am  mentioning  this  at  all  is  I  want  you 
always  to  try  and  see  things  as  they  must  be  with 
me,  and  judge  accordingly.  Letters  have  meant 
more  to  us  than  most ;  haven't  they  ?  I  suppose 
I  will  get  most  terribly  out  of  touch  with  things, 
with  the  live,  progressive  world  we  both  so  love, 
and  books,  and  what  is  really  happening  in  "our" 
world;  but  again  that  cannot  be  helped,  either. 
You  must  keep  pace  with  things  for  both  of  us, 
and  "put  me  wise"  when  I  get  home. 

Good  night,  dear,  I'm  going  to  bed,  God  bless 
you.  R. 

Next  night. 

I  think  I  told  you  that  the  Batt'n  I  am  momen- 
tarily attached  to  is  made  up  of  fellows  just  out 
from  England  and  casualties  returned  from  hos- 
pital. They  belong  to  all  kinds  of  Batt'ns  but 
are  all  in  the  2nd  Division.  Just  now,  things 
are  quiet  up  the  line,  so  our  own  crowds  don't 
keep  wanting  re-inforcements.  As  they  do  want 
them,  they  take  them  from  here.  We  are  known 
as  the  2nd  Entrenching  Batt'n ;  but  there  are  no 
trenches  to  be  dug,  so  we  do  fatigue,  and  a  little 


UP  THE  LINE  99 

drill  etc.,  also  bombing,  and  musketry  —  that 
chiefly  for  the  fellows  fresh  out,  who  have  been 
trained  with  the  Ross,  which  of  course  is  not 
used.  ...  '^ 

I  can  recommend  Northcliffe's  book  just  out; 
At  the  War,  I  believe  it  is.  You  must  read  it ;  it 
will  surely  be  good.  To  my  mind,  he  is  one  of 
the  greatest  Englishmen,  but  many  would  dis- 
agree. He  is  very  outspoken,  and  English  people 
seem  to  loathe  anything  like  that.  .  .  . 

In  France  —  behind  the  lines. 
Sunday  afternoon.     4  December,  '16. 

My  very  dearest  Lai,  — 

I  have  got  hold  of  a  green  envelope,  probably  the 
last  I'll  get  for  a  long,  long  time.  They  don't 
issue  them  here ;  I  got  it  by  luck  and  good  manage- 
ment !  Do  you  remember  the  letters  you  wrote, 
when  you  thought  I  was  going  up  to  a  Casualty 
Clearing  Station?  You  were  worried  about  it 
being  dangerous,  when  most  of  them  are  safer  than 
England.  If  you  worried  then,  what  will  you  be 
doing  now?  And  how  can  I  say,  "Oh,  that'll  be 
all  right."  I  might  —  should  —  say  that  to 
any  one  else ;  but  what's  the  use  of  talking  a  lot 
of  hot  air  like  that  to  you?  On  the  other  hand, 
what's  the  use  of  dwelling  on  the  black  side  of 
things?  This  war  is  so  "different."  In  any 
other  we  might  talk  of  "our  noble  cause",  "the 


100       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

clash  of  arms",  "death  or  glory",  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing;  but  this  one  is  so  vast,  one  wee 
atom  of  a  man  so  small,  the  chance  for  individual- 
ity coming  out  so  remote,  that  it  has  developed, 
for  a  single  Unit,  into  merely  a  job  of  work  to  be 
done :  eat,  sleep,  and  work.  You  don't  fight ; 
you  can't  call  dodging  shells,  machine-gun  bullets, 
and  bombs,  fighting;  it's  fighting  all  right,  when 
you  "go  over";  but  a  single  battalion  doesn't 
go  over  so  very  often,  even  at  the  Somme.  I 
wish  I  could  make  you  "get"  the  atmosphere. 
"Heroics"  are  dead  here,  a  charge  is  not  the 
wonderful,  glorious  thing  we  were  told  it  was.  I 
have  even  begun  to  wonder  if  it  ever  was,  or  if 
the  poets  and  historians  and  "Press  agents"  of 
those  days  have  been  just  kidding  us. 

No  one  wants  to  go  into  the  trenches,  yet  no  one 
(who  is  any  one)  would  dodge  out  of  it.  Every 
one  wants  a  soft  Blighty  wound,  with  the  chance 
of  getting  to  where  there  are  no  whizz  bangs,  and 
you  go  to  bed  every  night.  Every  man  I  have 
spoken  to :  German,  French,  English,  Canuck, 
are  sick  to  death  of  it;  yet  to  quit  without  a 
definite  decision  is  out  of  the  question,  and  no  one 
would  think  of  it.  And  how  on  earth  am  I  to  tell 
you  not  to  worry  and  all  that ;  how  on  earth  is  a 
husband  (like  me)  to  write  to  a  wife  (like  you) 
about  his  feelings  on  and  before  going  into  the 
front  line  of  a  war  like  this?  None  of  us  are 
heroes.     To  read  of  "Our  splendid  Canadians" 


UP  THE  LINE*  19|; 

makes  us  ill.  We  are  just  fed  up,  longing  for  the 
end,  but  seldom  mentioning  it,  and  hoping  — 
when  we  think  of  it  —  that  when  we  do  get  it,  — 
it  will  be  an  easy  one,  or  something  final.  Our 
main  effort  is  to  think  and  talk  as  little  of  the 
war  as  possible.  The  mail  is  far  the  most  im- 
portant thing;  the  next,  "What's  the  rations 
today?";  the  next,  "What's  the  job  today?". 
Of  course  newspapers  are  anxiously  bought  up  — 
but  we  know  the  newspapers  don't  tell  us  much. 
And  the  thing  is  so  big  anyway  that  no  one  can 
possibly  grasp  even  a  fraction  of  it. 

There  is  one  new  thing  I've  learned,  and  that  is 
that  it  won't  be  good  to  be  a  chap  who  stayed  at 
home,  when  the  boys  return.  This  thing  is  just 
a  bit  too  serious.  We  know  what  it  is  here. 
Also,  the  distance  between  the  fellow  at  the  base 
and  the  fellow  in  a  fighting  unit  is  "as  a  great 
gulf  fixed"  —  far,  far  more  so  than  the  innocent 
boys  at  the  base  dream  of.  Again,  as  you  know, 
the  later  Battalions  formed  in  Canada  don't  re- 
main as  a  unit,  but  are  drafted  as  reinforcements 
to  older  ones,  N.C.O.'s  of  course  reverting  to 
privates.  Well,  I  don't  think  I  should  like  to 
have  to  say  I  belonged  to  the  one  hundred-  or 
two  hundred-  and-  umpty  something.  The  ques- 
tion always  is  — "Why?"  "Out  of  a  job"— or 
"Did  the  girls  make  you  join?"  How  long  have 
you  been  in  France  is  what  matters.  .  .  . 

I'm  not  sure  if  you  would  like  me  to  talk  about 


1,02       A:  CANADIAN   STRETCHER  BEARER 

how  I  feel  regarding  the  possibility  that  I  might 
"get  it  good",  as  they  say ;  —  but,  dearie,  I  don't 
think  about  it.  I  did  a  lot  at  first,  but  don't 
now.  Thinking  about  it  could  do  no  good;  in 
fact,  I  fancy  a  man  couldn't  do  his  best,  if  he 
perpetually  had  that  thought  in  his  mind.  As 
regards  your  future,  in  case  I  got  killed,  well,  I 
have  thought  that  all  out ;  but  I  am  not  going  to 
say  anything  about  it  —  mainly  because  you  are 
so  much  better  than  any  man  could  hope  to  be  — 
a  higher  type,  dearie,  altogether.  It  is  much  too 
sacred  a  thing  for  me  to  "talk"  of,  sitting  on  the 
floor  of  a  barrack  room,  surrounded  by  poker 
players,  all  sorts  of  people,  —  I  couldn't. 

Regarding  the  kiddie  in  that  event,  my  views 
on  her  future  so  exactly  coincide  with  yours,  that 
there  is  nothing  left  to  say.  I  have  told  you 
before  that  I  consider  you  a  perfect  Mother,  — 
more  I  cannot  say.  Billie  will  be  in  perfect 
hands ;  she  will  have  a  Mother  such  as  I  should 
choose  if  I  had  the  whole  world  to  pick  from. 

14  December,  '16. 
My  dearest  Lai :  — 

I  have  had  a  jolly  interesting  letter  from  you.  I 
wish  I  could  write  the  way  you  do  —  I  mean  in  a 
chatty  way;  but  I  can't.  I  seem  always  to  be 
strung  up  to  an  unnatural  kind  of  pitch,  never  have 
a  mind  at  complete  ease,  and  the  consequence  is 
my  letters  all  seem  to  me  to  be  forced  and  not  a 


UP  THE  LINE  103 

bit  like  I  want  them  to  be.  But  I  know  how  you 
always  want  something  regularly  to  tell  you  I  am 
well,  so  I  will  send  as  many  of  those  cards  —  the 
boys  have  named  them  "whizz  bangs"  for  some 
reason  —  I  mean,  of  course,  the  post  cards.  They 
are  not  exactly  interesting;  but  they  will  show 
you  that  I  am  still  up  and  going  strong.  Today, 
I  have  been  reading  about  the  German  peace 
proposals.  My  impression  is  it  is  very  clever  of 
them;  but,  of  course,  we  shall  "carry  on"  just 
the  same.  I  think  that  every  horror  that  has  so 
far  been  enacted  in  the  war  will  be  outdone  in 
1917,  and  that  the  German  common  people  will 
not  stand  another  winter,  and  so  it  will  end.  But 
not,  in  my  opinion,  with  an  out-and-out  knock- 
out either  way,  or  with  any  huge  gains  of  territory 
by  us. 

Things  are  still  exceedingly  quiet  on  this  front, 
which  I  am  directly  behind;  in  fact,  you  could 
hardly  tell  there  was  a  war  on.  .  .  . 

By  the  way,  has  it  ever  struck  you  what  a 
force,  politically,  the  returned  soldiers  will  be 
after  the  war?  Lord  Northcliffe  has  drawn 
attention  to  the  fact  that,  after  the  Civil  War 
in  America,  the  men  who  had  fought,  controlled 
the  country  for  fifty  years.  I  suppose  those 
cocksure  politicians  would  smile,  if  you  told 
them ;  but  I  prophesy  that  the  boys  out  here  will 
run  things,  when  they  return.  You  see  if  I  am 
not  right.     You  will  see  they  will  hang  together 


104       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

as  one  man.     It  will  be  the  greatest  "frat"  in  the 
country.  ... 

18  December,  '16. 
My  dearest  Lai : 

Just  a  very  short  note.  We  are  moving  billets, 
hence  the  hurry. 

I  was  highly  amused  to  hear  the  tanks  are 
made  in  America.  Germany  also  claims  originat- 
ing them.  No,  dear,  let  poor  old  England  have 
something.  They  were  designed  and  built  in  a 
town  in  the  North  of  England  which  I  know  well. 
And,  by  the  way,  don't  get  the  impression  they 
are  the  whole  cheese;  they  wouldn't  be  worth  a 
nickel  without  the  human  element  —  the  infantry. 
However,  soon  I  will  see  one  work,  enter  one,  and 
will  give  you  my  impression  (with  one  eye  on  the 
censor,  of  course). 

About  the  war  —  and  me  —  there  isn't  much 
to  be  said.  Things  are  still  delightfully  quiet. 
It  snowed  today,  and  tonight  it's  beastly  cold. 
The  new  billets,  I  think,  will  be  an  improvement. 
Hope  so. 

I  haven't  been  out  on  a  working  party  for  a  few 
days,  and  am  anxiously  hoping  one  won't  come 
my  way  till  Xmas  is  over  —  but  I  have  fears. 

Most  people,  I  think,  imagine,  when  you  are 
at  the  front,  you  spend  all  your  time  in  a  trench, 
looking  out  for  Heinie.  My  last  few  days  have 
been  spent  digging  holes  to  bury  old  cans  in, 


UP  THE  LINE  105 

and  hauling  flags  for  the  floor  of  a  large  tent. 
Nothing  very  warlike  or  romantic  about  that,  is 
there?  But  all  these  little  things  have  to  be 
done,  you  know,  and  about  a  million  of  them. 

26  December,  '16. 
My  Dearest  Lai : 

Xmas  has  come  and  gone.  It  was  horrible 
weather,  rained  all  day,  and  a  gale  of  wind  blew 
so  hard  even  walking  was  difficult.  As  far  as  was 
possible  we  had  a  good  time;  I  cashed  the  P.O. 
the  day  before  Xmas  eve  —  there  were  four  of 
us  to  share  it  and  it  lasted  till  this  evening.  We 
didn't  have  any  parade  Xmas  day,  so  we  spent 
it  visiting  various  friends  in  different  billets.  I 
had  just  moved  to  mine,  the  new  one ;  it's  a  sort 
of  washhouse  back  of  a  cottage,  just  room  for 
three  —  about  six  feet  square.  We  have  a  little 
stove  and  the  woman  in  the  cottage,  being  a 
little  more  civilized  than  the  general  run,  we 
can  use  her  coal  pails  to  wash  in  and  so  forth. 
There  was  no  Xmas.  dinner,  such  as  the  papers 
say  all  the  troops  get.  The  issue  was  the  regular 
tea  at  noon  —  with  the  addition  of  prunes.  At 
night,  the  usual  "Mulligan",  or  stew.  However 
it  didn't  make  much  difference  to  us,  as  we  ate  in 
the  village.  Just  as  we  got  to  bed,  Xmas  Eve, 
all  the  surrounding  batteries  started  a  big  strafe 
and  continued  till  twelve  o'clock  sharp,  as  a  sort 
of  Xmas  box  to  Fritz,  I  guess.     It  made  such  a 


106       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

row  and  shook  the  place  so  we  couldn't  sleep.  One 
big  gun  throwing  heavies  over  sounded  just  like 
the  street  cars  approaching,  as  you  wait  often, 
no  doubt,  at  the  corner  of  Second  Avenue;  the 
light  in  the  sky  was  exactly  like  summer  lightning 
as  you  have  seen  it  flickering  scores  of  times. 

Today  is  very  clear  and,  as  I  write,  Fritz  is 
very  busy  shelling  our  planes  which  are  up  in 
great  strength.  I  have  never  seen  him  hit  one 
yet. 

I  think  they  are  getting  a  bit  more  lively  on 
this  bit  of  front.  You  remember  my  telling  you 
about  that  ruined  village  I  was  in  one  night? 
For  some  reason,  Fritz  took  it  into  his  head,  the 
other  day,  to  put  a  few  more  shells  into  it,  and 
one  fell  on  four  of  our  boys  who  were  cooking  their 
grub.  It  was  rotten  luck ;  but  they  never  knew 
what  hit  'em,  I  suppose.  Also  —  probably  you 
didn't  —  but  you  might  have  seen  something  like 
this  in  the  papers:  "In  the  Arras  section,  we 
made  a  raid,  capturing  fifty  odd  prisoners."  This 
was  when  four  hundred  of  our  boys  went  over  the 
top  here  the  other  night.  It  was  a  very  successful 
raid.  They  stayed  in  Fritz's  line  an  hour  and  a 
half,  and  only  lost  a  few  killed. 

The  other  day,  they  asked  for  volunteers  to 
take  machine  gun  corps  instruction.  I  thought 
it  all  over  very  carefully,  as  I  would  rather  like 
to  be  a  machine  gunner  —  but  I  finally  turned  it 
down.     I  want  to  get  a  job  as  Battn.  stretcher 


UP  THE  LINE  107 

bearer.  It's  a  rotten  job,  of  course,  and  nobody 
wants  it ;  but  I  rather  think  I  would  be  more 
use  binding  up  wounds  than  I  would  be  just 
carrying  a  gun  in  the  ordinary  way.  I  got  quite 
a  little  experience  in  the  ward  at  Boulogne, 
which  will  be  a  lot  of  help.  Moreover,  I  think  it's 
interesting  —  much  more  so  than  merely  being  in 
the  line. 

During  the  big  wind  the  other  day,  our  Y.M. 
tent  blew  down,  and  I  was  unluckily  on  the 
party  working  at  night  to  fold  it  up  —  so  we 
have  no  place  to  go  to  write  or  anything.  It 
was  a  new  institution  for  us ;  we  have  only 
had  it  about  a  week  or  so.  As  the  wind  tore 
it  very  badly,  I  guess  we'll  have  to  go  without 
one  now. 

Several  batteries  have  started  another  strafe 
and  the  window  of  my  little  shack  is  rattling  to 
beat  the  band.  The  big  heavy,  I  think,  is  a  new 
addition;  it  certainly  sends  over  some  pretty 
husky  shells,  very  much  to  Fritz's  annoyance.  I 
suppose  the  planes  have  been  sending  down  some 
fresh  ranges  this  morning  and  that  will  be  the 
reason  of  the  extra  bombardment.  The  old 
woman  in  the  back  yard  goes  on  calmly  with 
her  washing,  merely  remarking  to  me  "Bon  for 
the  Allemagne."  Nothing  seems  to  excite  those 
old  people  now;  they  have  seen  so  much  of  it. 
The  thing  that  surprised  me,  and  what  I  can 
never  understand,  is  why  Fritz  doesn't  shell  this 


108       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

town.  He  must  know  we  are  here;  his  planes 
manage  to  get  over  every  now  and  then.  Also 
all  within  a  mile  of  each  other  are  three  or  four 
coal  mines,  all  going  full  blast.  I  should  imagine 
he'd  go  to  great  trouble  to  put  'em  out  of  business. 
Also,  he  never  makes  any  attempt  to  bring  down 
our  observation  balloons  which,  on  a  day  like 
today,  are  up  all  along  the  line.  On  this  sector, 
we  simply  have  him  beat  to  a  standstill  in  every 
department. 

If  only  he'd  get  worse  and  quit;  but  no  such 
luck  for  another  year,  I'm  afraid. 

My  little  house  looks  very  cosy  tonight.  I'm 
all  alone.  We  got  a  little  table,  swiped  an  old 
chair,  the  stove  is  going  fine,  and  I've  just  made  a 
mess  tin  full  of  tea  (strong).  Later,  I'll  manage 
some  toast.  We  are  well  stocked  with  Oxo, 
cakes,  cafe  au  lait,  and  a  plum  pudding,  also  some 
canned  butter.  Somebody  rustled  up  some  shelves 
which  are  decorated  with  home  photographs.  It 
doesn't  look  much  like  active  service  in  France, 
until  you  notice  the  other  war  decorations : 
gas  helmets,  rifles  and  so  forth.  Did  I  tell  you  I 
was  through  the  gas  school  —  tear-gas.  You 
go  and  stay  in  a  big  dark  shed  full  of  it.  Rather 
weird  it  is.  It's  to  test  out  the  helmets.  It 
smells  of  pineapples;  the  gas  Fritz  uses  is  more 
dangerous  as  it's  colourless  —  I  dread  that  —  and 
being  buried  —  more  than  anything. 

Anyway,  one  may  go  through  Ypres  and  the 


UP  THE  LINE  109 

Somme,  say,  and  never  get  a  scratch,  and  another 
get  hit  by  a  bit  of  our  own  aeroplane  shells  miles 
behind  the  line  —  so  I  don't  suppose  where  I 
personally  go  matters  much.  It's  written  —  and 
what  is  to  be  will  be,  and  only  time  will  show. 

30  December,  '16. 
My  very  dearest  Lai,  — 

I  always  thought  Friday  was  my  lucky  day; 
but  I  guess  I  made  a  mistake  and  it  is  Saturday ; 
because,  in  addition  to  have  an  easy  day,  I  got 
two  letters  and  a  parcel. 

Tonight  our  little  shack  is  decidedly  cosy. 
Bill  is  lying  on  the  floor  on  my  blankets,  reading 
a  magazine  he  swiped :  the  stove  is  red  hot ; 
we  have  had  a  big  feed  of  hot  "mulligan"  topped 
off  with  what  we  both  think  honestly  is  the 
very  best  cake  we  have  ever  tasted.  We  have 
good  cigarettes,  and  I  have  a  new  pipe.  Later 
on,  we  will  have  some  hot  Oxo  and  some  more 
cake,  and  the  weather  and  Fritz  can  go  hang 
till  tomorrow.  The  parcel  was  the  Xmas  one. 
It  was  lovely,  the  packing  the  most  thoughtful 
I  have  ever  seen.  Everything  has  a  use  out  here. 
The  tin  is  what  we  wanted  to  keep  our  jam  and 
cheese  wrapped  in ;  the  stickers  make  a  nice  wall 
decoration ;  string  —  we  always  need  string. 
So  you  can  see  that  all  of  it  comes  in  for  some- 
thing. You  don't  know  what  a  "parcel"  means 
—  you  couldn't.     It's  the  nice  feeling  you  have 


110       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

when  they  come,  apart  from  the  eats  which 
seem  almost  a  necessity,  and  the  other  things 
which  are  of  the  utmost  use. 

I  see  you  say  some  one  told  you  that  any  par- 
cels going  to  the  hospitals  would  be  kept  there 
and  disposed  of  by  the  boys  in  the  care-free  way 
they  have.  That  is  only  half  right.  They 
wouldn't  down  there;  but  they  would  up  at  the 
Battalion,  and  really  it  is  only  right.  The  fel- 
low may  be  dead,  or  in  Blighty  or  some  place 
where  he  won't  need  it.  Some  one,  some  place, 
is  no  doubt  shaving  with  my  Gillett's  blades, 
and  some  one  else  has  my  other  presents  —  but, 
Que  voulez  vous?  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to 
register  small  stuff,  and  sew  everything  else  up 
most  carefully.  Too  much  attention  cannot  be 
given  to  packing.  No  one  would  think  of  re- 
directing a  broken  package.  What  would  be 
the  use  ? 

I  was  ever  so  pleased  that  you  wrote  in  such  a 
cheerful  strain.  I  know  it  isn't  all  put  on. 
And  you  want  always  to  bear  in  mind  that  an 
awful  lot  of  the  stuff  you  hear  about  the  trenches 
is  a  great  deal  exaggerated.  It  isn't  as  bad  as 
all  that,  and  anyway  a  Battalion  isn't  "in" 
all  the  time,  you  know.  Some  of  the  boys  will 
even  be  "out"  for  a  whole  month.  Those  boys, 
that  you  get  in  conversation  back  there,  try  to 
give  you  all  the  horrors  and  none  of  the  fun 
of  it. 


UP  THE  LINE  111 

31  December,  '16. 
Sunday  —  (New  Year's  Eve). 

My  very  dearest  Lai,  — 

Today  we  were  quite  lucky.  Apparently  there 
were  no  parties  to  go  out  anywhere,  so  we  went 
to  Church  in  the  Cinema  Hall.  It  wasn't  very 
interesting.  Tonight  there  is  a  special  service 
— with  communion,  if  you  wish — it  is  a  voluntary 
affair  —  at  seven-thirty.  Chaplains  who  know 
how  to  talk  and  interest  men  up  near,  and  at 
the  front  line,  are  awfully  scarce.  I've  only 
heard  one  real,  live,  sincere  one,  and  he  was  at  La 
Havre.  .  .  . 

Did  I  tell  you  at  Xmas  the  boys  who  drive  the 
big  transport  trucks  all  decorated  them  with 
holly,  and  the  big  gun  fellows  actually  hung 
mistletoe  on  the  guns? 

That's  one  reason  why  we  can't  lose  the  war : 
our  boys  are  irrepressible,  in  a  sporting  way,  not 
surlily  savage.  That  spirit  wouldn't  last.  Ours 
will.  Only  the  newspapers  talk  of  Huns.  They 
are  always  Fritzes  to  us.  The  boys  kill  'em  with 
the  same  good  nature  that  they  laugh  at  them, 
when  they  come  in  as  prisoners.  The  most 
common  remark  is,  "Hello  Fritz!  When's  the 
war  going  to  end?"  Fritz  soon  catches  the 
spirit,  and  goes  about  his  work  quite  cheerfully. 
He  has  a  canteen  of  his  own,  and  can  smoke  and 
all  that.     His  rations,  I  think,  are  identical;    I 


112       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

know  he  gets  a  third  of  a  loaf  of  bread,  just  as 
we  do.  It  wasn't  him  that  invented  gas  and 
liquid  flame. 

Mention  of  gas  reminds  me  Arras  was  shelled 
heavily  again  the  other  day  with  gas  shells. 
My  chum  Billy  was  gassed  slightly  at  the  salient. 
He  and  others  were  asleep,  when  he  thought  his 
rubber  sheet  smelt  funny  —  Fritz  was  shelling  all 
around ;  but  nothing  special.  Suddenly  he  thought 
perhaps  they  were  gas  shells,  —  and  kicked  up 
as  many  sleepers  as  he  could,  meantime  trying 
to  pull  his  mask  over  his  head  —  (that  was  be- 
fore we  got  the  fine  new  ones)  but  he  hadn't 
time.  It  was  beating  him,  so  he  stuffed  as  much 
of  the  thing  into  his  mouth  as  he  could  and 
beat  it.  A  great  many  died.  He's  a  fine  husky 
lad;  but  he's  never  been  the  same,  he  says. 
His  eyes  are  not  so  good,  and  his  chest  is  bad 
now  and  then.  He  was  wounded  too,  and  wears 
a  little  gold  stripe;  also  he's  a  corporal.  I'll 
want  you  to  meet  him  some  day  — 

I  am  getting  more  impressed  every  day  with 
the  perfect  organization  and  readiness  of  things 
here.  Whatever  it  was  before,  today  I  cannot 
see  a  fault,  not  one.  Of  course,  we  all  kick  all 
the  time,  "grouse"  as  the  English  call  it;  but 
that  is  a  soldier's  privilege.  We  kick  at  the 
rations,  the  work,  everything;  but  that  doesn't 
signify  anything.  If  we  shouldn't  win,  it  is  not 
the  soldiers'  —  by  that  I  mean  the  Armies'  — 


UP  THE  LINE  US 

fault.  Everything  is  like  a  perfect,  well-oiled 
piece  of  machinery.  All  the  men  are  well  clothed, 
good  boots  —  so  essential.  All  the  men  are 
well;  there  is  no  sickness  whatever.  I  mean 
no  fevers  and  that  sort  of  thing.  All  things 
like  tools  for  every  purpose  are  here  in  abun- 
dance ;  ammunition  —  well  —  in  more  than  abun- 
dance. Our  planes  are  up  in  the  sky  all  the  time 
in  flocks,  and  the  big  guns  —  I  don't  know  what 
to  say  about  them.  I  don't  even  begin  to  know 
where  they  are;  but  I  know  wherever  we  are, 
one  is  liable  to  make  you  jump  by  letting  off  a 
round  or  so,  apparently  out  of  the  earth.  The 
transports  run  day  and  night  with  the  regularity 
of  trains;  and  reinforcements  of  all  these  things 
are  right  here,  right  at  hand.  But  most  of  all, 
the  right  spirit  is  here.  Every  one  knows  we 
are  winning.  There  is  no  fuss  —  no  hurry. 
The  vast  organization  is  like  a  successful  busi- 
ness, running  smoothly  with  plenty  of  work  and 
orders  on  hand.  I  wonder  if  Fritz  can  say  the 
same.  All  I  know,  his  batteries  do  not  reply  to 
ours,  his  planes  put  a  show  in  once  in  a  while; 
but,  in  less  than  two  minutes,  he  is  surrounded 
by  little  clouds  of  bursting  shrapnel  and  our 
flying  boys  ate  after  him  like  a  hawk  on  a 
pigeon.  He  never  waits,  always  turns  tail  and 
beats  it.  Also,  I  think  he  flies  too  high  for  ac- 
curate observation.  Truth  to  tell,  I  don't  blame 
him. 


114       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

All  this  speaks  to  only  one  end.  Only  a  silly 
ass  thinks  we  are  going  to  pour  through,  and  on 
to  the  Rhine.  This  isn't  a  war  of  pitched  battles 
of  that  kind.  Moral  effect  —  that  now  common 
phrase  —  matters  more  and  more,  and  will  be 
the  decisive  factor  —  Army  —  then  Civil.  To 
advance  a  mile  doesn't  sound  much ;  but  imagine 
what  it  would  be  if  Fritz  advanced  a  mile  here ! 
It  isn't  the  trenches ;  but  the  vast  organization 
behind  that  suffers  most ;  the  roads  and  routes, 
the  cables,  the  'phones,  the  billets,  gun  emplace- 
ments, supply  depots,  and  Oh  —  everything. 
To  put  that  out  of  gear  is  what  counts. 

Behind  every  mile  of  trenches  is  literally  a 
town  —  a  temporary  town,  true ;  but  a  town  with 
all  its  organization  from  water  supply  to  electric 
light.     Say,  what  a  fortune  a  fellow  could  make 

—  will  make,  many  of  them  —  conducting-  tour- 
ing parties  through  here,  after  it  is  all  over ! 
Then  millions  will  come;  I'll  never  rest  till  I 
come  here  myself.  I  want  to  see  the  Salient,  Cour- 
celette  (Our  Capture),  and  I  want  to  see  Fritz's 
side  of  the  thing.  I  suppose  all  the  dugouts  and 
trenches  will  be  left  for  generations  for  this  very 
purpose ;  and  old  French  farmers  will  coin  money 
out  of  otherwise  barren  land.  Souvenir  hunting 
will  be  interesting ;    queer  things  will  be  dug  up 

—  unless  the  French  Government  prohibit  tour- 
ing parties  until  all  is  made  sanitary  —  which  I 
guess  they  will. 


UP  THE  LINE  115 

Wednesday,  3  January,  '17. 
My  dearest  Lai :  — 

Yesterday,  I  was  working  just  in  front  of  one 
of  our  batteries,  helping  build  a  railroad  track. 
Our  batteries  were  giving  Fritz  no  rest,  all  along 
the  line.  At  dusk,  you  could  see  the  flashes 
from  many  guns  too  far  away  to  hear  the  report. 
Not  a  single  shot  did  Fritz  push  over  in  return; 
in  fact,  it's  hard  to  imagine  that  there  are  Ger- 
man lines  "over  there."  In  the  morning  we 
had  to  squat  down  and  keep  still  for  a  while,  as 
two  Fritz  planes  were  up.  But  they  didn't 
come  far.  In  addition  to  a  barrage  put  up  by 
our  anti-aircraft  guns,  more  with  —  or  at  least 
much  with  —  the  idea  of  heading  him  as  bring- 
ing him  down,  were  a  number  of  our  planes  quite 
ready  for  him,  if  he  came  too  far.  It  must  all 
be  very  discouraging  for  poor  Fritz;  but  the 
worst  is  yet  to  come  no  doubt,  in  the  grand  finale. 
Everything  is  going. 

I  was  rather  amused  (forgive  me)  at  your  idea 
of  my  possibly  getting  "cut  out",  over  the  top, 
and  about  the  ration  "sewn  up  in  your  coat." 

My  dear,  a  Battn.  doesn't  go  over  the  top 
once  to  a  blue  moon;  moreover,  going  over,  the 
worst  thing  you  suffer  in  a  trench  —  holding  a 
crater  for  instance,  is  far  worse.  And  you  don't 
have  anything  sewn  in  your  coat.  I  don't  worry 
a  bit  about  my  teeth;  but  I  do  about  my  eyes, 


116       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

which  are  getting  very  poor  indeed,  especially 
at  night.  .  .  . 

5  January,  '17. 
My  Ownest  Lai :  — 

Mail  is  beginning  to  come  with  regularity,  and 
I  am  tickled  to  death,  of  course.  I  keep  getting 
some  from  the  Hospital,  which  is  out  of  date  to 
say  the  least ;  but  most  of  it  is  right  bang  news, 
cheery  and  optimistic,  breathing  of  hope  and 
above  all  telling  me  you  and  Billikins  both  are, 
as  we  say  here,  "Jake"  —  in  other  words,  fine. 
Those  are  the  kind  of  letters  I  love  to  have,  and 
I  feel  better  for  having  read  'em  right  away. 

Today  all  sorts  of  "domestic"  happenings  seem 
to  be  around  our  little  home.  To  begin  with, 
our  orderly  Cpl.  has  gone  up  the  line  on  a  draft, 
and  B.  has  got  his  job.  That  makes  our  room 
the  Post  Office,  nice  for  getting  your  mail  tout 
suit,  but  a  nuisance,  somewhat,  owing  to  so  many 
callers.  W.  marches  in,  this  afternoon,  with 
the  green  slip  which  is  more  precious  than  rubies, 
the  most  valued  thing  a  soldier  ever  gets  in  France 
—  a  leave  ticket  —  for  ten  days  they  are  now, 
too.  His  mother  is  over  from  New  York  on  a 
trip  to  London.  He's  been  here  twenty-three 
months  in  France  without  a  day's  leave,  and 
maybe  he  isn't  tickled.  (It  almost  looks  as  if  I 
might  get  mine  after  all.)  The  shack  is  all  in  a 
flurry  with  him  packing  up.    You  have  to  go 


UP  THE  LINE  117 

with  full  kit,  minus  ammunition.  It's  a  darn 
shame  we  should  have  to  wait  so  long,  when  base 
fellows,  and  officers,  can  go  over  so  often;  but 
of  course  the  Infantry,  indeed,  any  of  us  up  the 
line,  take  all  the  dirt  of  everything,  from  grub 
to  work. 

And  now  you  may  wonder  how  I  happen  to  be 
"at  home"  in  the  afternoon.  Well,  a  fellow  out 
on  a  working  party  fell  to  pieces  and  went  insane. 
They  took  him  to  the  field  Hospital,  and  I  am 
one  of  his  guards  till  they've  finished  "observ- 
ing" him  (I  hope  it  takes  six  months).  They, 
of  course,  consider  the  possibility  that  he  may  be 
pulling  one  big  "swinging  the  lead"  stunt;  some 
darned  queer  things  have  been  done  here  to  get 
back  to  Blighty  or  Canada.  I  do  twenty-four 
hours,  and  same  off,  with  another  fellow;  it's  a 
cinch.  The  Fid.  Amb.  is,  at  least  the  head- 
quarters are,  in  rather  a  nice  chateau  —  what's 
left  of  it.  I  told  you  about  it  once  before.  The 
jay  is  in  one  of  the  rooms  upstairs  which  has 
been  turned  into  a  ward  and  by  a  coincidence  is 
presided  over  by  a  Med.  Student,  one  time  of 
No.  3  down  at  Boulogne.  It's  a  fine  big  room 
with  three  large  long  French  windows  overlook- 
ing the  grounds;  the  wall  paper  is  modern  and 
rather  pretty;  the  beds  consist  of  stretchers  on 
low  trestles;  there  are,  of  course,  none  of  the 
refinements  of  a  base  hospital,  no  sheets  or  any- 
thing like  that;    if  any  one  is  wounded  in  the 


118       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

trenches,  he  goes  to  the  advanced  dressing 
station.  .  .  . 

I  was  going  on,  when  some  one  remarked 
"That  must  be  one  of  Fritz's."  No  one  bothered 
to  get  up  to  look  out  of  the  window  even.  Later, 
a  fellow  casually  remarked  that  "Fritz  had  put 
a  few  here  this  morning  and  one  had  dropped  on 
the  coal  pile  near  the  billets."  Not  the  slightest 
interest  is  taken.     Remarkable,  isn't  it? 

I  am  sometimes  amused  when  you  mention 
the  fellows  who  you  know  in  khaki  and  things 
about  the  two  hundred-and-umpty  something 
battalion.  The  first  thing  those  fellows  think 
about  when  they  get  as  far  up  as  this  is  to  get 
rid  of  those  nice  pretty  badges,  and  pick  up  the 
ones  of  the  battalion  they  reinforce.  We  think 
they  took  their  patriotism  rather  late,  you  know ; 
don't  you?  Certainly,  I  never  want  any  fit 
man  of  military  age,  who  didn't  go  to  France 
during  this  time,  to  come  near  our  home;  and 
I  guess  he  won't  —  twice  — 

Your  remark  about  the  returned  men  being 
somewhat  "difficile"  is  exactly  what  I  expected 
—  and  it  will  get  worse.  There  are  two  sides  to 
the  question  of  the  boys,  in  my  idea.  One  is 
that  they  don't  want  a  lot  of  fussy  people  patron- 
izing them.  All  they  want  is  what  is  coming  to 
them  and  to  be  left  alone.  The  other  is,  of 
course,  that  a  very  large  number  will  undoubt- 
edly trade  on  the  fact  that  they  went  to  France 


UP  THE  LINE  119 

for  their  country's  sake  —  whether  they  did  or 
did  not  they'll  think  they  did,  and  try  to  bum 
around  till  doomsday.  What  it  will  be  like  when 
all  return,  I  don't  know;  but  I  expect,  if  any 
one  thinks  they  are  going  to  mother  him  in  a 
patronizing  way,  they'll  be  dead  out  of  luck,  and 
will  of  course  blame  the  poor  Tommy  for  what 
is  due  to  their  own  lack  of  tact.  There  are  going 
to  be  some  rude  awakenings  on  both  sides,  I 
guess.  The  English  people  take  the  thing  better 
and  more  sensibly,  because  they  all  realize  it 
more,  have  given  more  and  lost  more. 

The  Returned  Soldiers'  Association  sounds 
alright.  But,  as  you  say,  it  will  have  to  be  free 
of  all  interference.  Personally,  I  don't  give  a 
hang  for  anything  of  that  kind.  All  I  want  is 
to  get  to  Canada,  and  they  can  keep  all  that's 
coming  to  me.  I'll  gladly  say  I  never  was  even 
over  here.  All  I  want  is  to  get  there  —  and  to 
be  home  with  you.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  S.  wanted  to  come  to  France.  Per- 
sonally, now  that  I  have  been  up  here  and  seen 
what  it's  like,  I  don't  see  any  reason  for  fearing 
anything  should  happen  to  him  beyond  the  ordi- 
nary risks.  He  would  not  be  intrusted  with  a 
'phone  or  wire  job  on  the  front  line,  but  would 
be  given  some  base,  or  advance  base  job,  practi- 
cally bomb  proof.  Certainly  it  would  be  ten 
thousand  times  better  for  him  in  every  way  to  be 
up  here  than  in  Shorncliffe.     You  are  kept  busy 


120       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

here.  The  work  is  taken  more  or  less  seriously, 
which  it  certainly  is  not  at  Shorncliffe.  The 
wildest  forms  of  amusement  are  sitting  in  a 
French  estaminet  drinking  their  wine  —  quite 
harmless  —  or  so-called  English  beer  —  more 
harmless  still  —  in  the  company  of  the  old  woman 
inn  keeper  and  her  family.  Women  are  taboo, 
I  suppose  by  the  French  Military  authorities. 
Whichever  way  you  figure  it,  this  would  be  the 
best  place  for  him.  Moreover,  I  don't  see  why 
he  shouldn't  take  his  chance  with  the  rest.  I 
thought  differently  about  it  at  Havre,  I  know; 
but  I've  changed  my  mind. 

However,  I  don't  suppose  he'll  be  allowed  to 
come.  Two  kids  out  of  our  battalion  were  sent 
back,  as  too  young  to  fight,  recently.  The 
humour  of  the  thing  lies  in  the  fact  that  both  wore 
gold  wound  stripes  got  at  the  Somme  —  kind  of 
late  to  decide  that  they  were  unfit.  But  the  boys 
worried  a  lot,  you  can  bet ;  they  were  just  tickled 
to  death. 

When  I  think  of  how  quiet  things  were  here 
when  we  first  came,  and  the  situation  now,  it 
makes  me  —  wonder.  Of  course,  there  was  al- 
ways a  bombardment  —  of  sorts.  But  not  the 
kind  that  keeps  the  light  flickering  in  the  sky  at 
night,  all  the  time;  nor  did  any  of  the  guns  let 
out  a  roar  which  shook  the  ground.  Now  — 
well  —  things  are  altering.  .  .  . 

Fritz  came  over  in  one  of  his  "planes",  the 


UP  THE  LINE  121 

other  night,  and  dropped  a  few  —  He  must  be 
getting  quite  bold  again. 

Every  fine  night,  our  planes  go  over  to  drop 
bombs  on  his  billet,  and  picture  shows,  etc.  Next 
day,  weather  permitting,  they  calmly  go  over 
and  take  a  photograph  of  the  damage.  Our  air 
service  is  simply  magnificent  and  must  undoubt- 
edly be  a  great  discouragement  to  poor  Heinie. 
We  took  his  punishment  for  two  years ;  now  it  is 
his  turn.  You'll  notice  I  don't  say  much  about 
going  "down  there"  now.  I  think  our  business 
will  be  elsewhere.  Also,  I  think  we  Canadians  as 
usual  will  be  right  there  —  probably  for  the  Anzacs 
to  get  the  glory.  To  get  the  true  ligfrt  on  them, 
you  have  to  ask  an  Imperial's  opinion.  He  gives 
it  in  no  uncertain  words  —  "no  hon"  Every 
town  in  England  swarms  with  them  on  leave, 
where  our  fellows  cannot  get  it  on  a  bet.  Out 
here,  taking  your  objective  is  easy ;  holding,  after 
Fritz  loosens  up  his  artillery,  is  what  counts. 
History  will  show.  We  took  and  held;  Aus- 
tralia took  alright,  but  did  not  hold.  .  .  . 

A  thing  I  forgot  to  mention  amongst  the  things 
I  would  like  you  to  put  in  your  parcels  are  candles 
—  the  thick  kind,  if  possible.  Whether  in  billets 
or  tents  or  dugouts,  you  don't  get  them  —  at 
least  we  don't  —  issued,  and  there  is  no  other 
light.  The  French  shops  charge  twopence  half- 
penny each  for  only  a  small  one,  and  a  dollar 
fifty  a  week  doesn't  go  far  enough.     In  the  line, 


\%%       A   CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

the  boys  get  an  old  jam  tin,  cut  up  a  candle  in 
small  pieces;  put  a  layer  on  the  bottom,  then  a 
piece  of  sand-bag,  then  another  layer  of  candle, 
and  so  on  as  far  as  it  will  go;  and  you  have  a 
thing  which  you  can  fry  bacon  or  boil  a  mess  tin 
on.     Some  stove,   eh?     But  quite  effective. 

You  ask  me  if  the  socks  you  sent  were  jake. 
You  bet  they  were;  but  too  good.  Very  com- 
mon —  very  thick  ones  are  the  only  thing,  so 
that  you  can  throw  them  away.  Weight  is  all 
that  matters  in  your  kit.  My  shaving  kit,  a 
comb,  a  few  pairs  of  socks  (most  important  of  all), 
photographs  and  letters,  two  pipes,  a  pencil  and 
cigarette  case  are  all  I  own  in  the  world.  I  am 
busting  with  health  —  glad  to  be  here  in  every 
way,  far  more  contented  than  at  Boulogne  — 
and  sure  of  victory,  Positive  of  it,  this  year. 

Next  Day. 

My  nice  soft  job  has  gone  back  on  me.  The 
guy  was  proved  "dippy",  and  the  fellow  who 
was  guarding  while  I  was  off  has  taken  him  down 
the  line. 

There  is  no  doubt  the  fellow  is  crazy.  He 
thought  he  was  going  to  be  shot  for  cowardice. 
I  think  he  was  afraid  of  being  afraid,  till  it  got 
him — only  a  young  fellow.  The  first  night  I  was 
with  him,  he  bothered  me  all  the  time  to  let  him 
go  out  and  dig  his  grave.  It's  not  uncommon  for 
fellows  to  go  crazy  in  the  front  line.  .  .  , 


UP  THE  LINE  128 

Today  I  watched  miles  —  literally  —  of  guns 
and  men  on  the  move.  In  Canada  or  England, 
it  would  draw  people  from  a  hundred  miles  to 
see;  but  here  it's  so  matter  of  course  that  even 
the  French  civilians  don't  bother  to  turn  their 
heads.  The  thing  that  impressed  me  most  was 
that  the  men  went  about  it  all  just  as  they  would 
in  ordinary  every-day  life.  The  gun  drivers 
just  went  on  like  ordinary  teamsters  —  and  so 
on,  all  down  the  line.  The  whole  thing  is  just  a 
job  of  work.  You  get  so  used  to  the  thing  that 
nothing  whatever  seems  to  surprise  you.  .  .  . 

11  January,  '17. 
My  Ownest  Lai,  — 

Both  mail  and  parcels  come  regularly  now, 
though  of  course  many  letters  have  gone  astray, 
particularly  those  you  must  have  sent  imme- 
diately after  I  left  Boulogne.  It's  too  bad.  I 
wanted  them  particularly,  but  though  I  now 
know  your  views,  my  mind  is  more  at  ease.  I 
depend  so  much  on  you  and  value  your  opinion 
so  highly.  Yes,  I  got  the  parcel.  The  cap  will 
be  most  useful,  particularly  on  night  working 
parties.  The  steel  helmet  is  rather  heavy  and 
clumsy,  and  you  will  have  seen  in  photographs 
that  the  boys  almost  always  wear  something  of 
this  sort  under  it.  We  get  a  thing  issued;  but 
it's  a  cheap  affair,  and  not  much  good.  I'll 
have  to  cut  holes  at  the  sides  for  my  ears.     You 


124       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

need  to  keep  them  uncovered.  The  socks  are 
fine,  but  still  too  good.  I  want  cheap  ones,  also 
only  send  one  pair  at  a  time. 

Who  told  you  "Imperial"  tobacco  was  good? 
Good !  I'd  always  sooner  have  tobacco  than 
cigarettes.  We  get  an  issue ;  but  it's  not  always 
regular,  nor  good. 

The  steel  mirror  was  particularly  appropriate 
and  welcome.  Of  course  they  are  the  only  kind. 
I  have  one  already,  but  it's  a  small  one  and  had 
lost  a  lot  of  its  polish ;  they  do  in  the  damp  and 
wet.  Glass  ones  are  no  good  at  all,  as  your  pack 
is  your  seat  in  the  day  time  and  your  pillow  at 
night.  Gloves  we  get  issued.  Maybe  they  last 
a  week,  at  most;  and  you  have  an  awful  time 
getting  another  pair.  My  issued  ones  were  all 
holes,  so  yours  came  just  at  the  right  moment. 
The  best  kind  are  those  strong  Canadian  leather 
ones  that  workmen  wear  in  Canada  and  the 
States.  In  England  or  France,  there  is  nothing 
like  them.  When  you  are  on  barbed  wire  work, 
you  get  the  loan  of  a  pair  of  specially  made  canvas 
things.  Excellent  they  are;  but  you  have  to 
turn  them  in  again,  when  the  job  is  done.  The 
boys  try  to  swipe  'em,  but  are  not  often  success- 
ful. 

Your  letters  are  different  now.  They  mean 
more  to  me.  Of  course,  they  are  not  the  same 
letters  you  wrote  to  Boulogne  at  all.  I  like  them 
much  better.     But  you  always  do  seem  to  do 


UP  THE  LINE  125 

the  right  thing  at  the  right  time.  I  am  so  afraid 
you  will  think  mine  lacking  in  heart,  but  they  are 
not;  they  were  never  so  full  of  it,  if  you  can 
understand.  Somehow  it's  impossible  to  write 
of  our  homey  heart-to-heart  things.  This  life 
is  too  big.  The  time  may  be  too  short.  You 
are  my  comrade;  my  pal;  you  are  here  with 
me  in  spirit.  The  small  things  must  wait.  I 
look  on  you  as  living  through  life  with  me  actually. 
And  if  you  were  here,  we  would  not  have  the 
time  or  inclination  to  talk  of  the  little  things 
which  are  really  the  big  things.  We  should 
mutually  agree  to  let  them  wait. 

You  can  be  assured  that,  when  the  time  comes, 
I  shall  not  be  behind  in  keeping  up  the  standard 
you  would  wish.  It  is  your  standard  that  I 
shall  be  acting  up  to,  the  one  you  set.  Whatever 
happens,  you  must  always  remember  that  you 
are  with  me  every  minute ;  that  it  will  be  more 
you  than  me  that  will  do  the  things  I  do,  that 
I  shall  always  think  first  —  What  would  Lai 
do  ?  —  and  do  it. 

The  whole  division  is  moving  —  not  "in", 
but  "out."  We  shall  have  a  "rest."  (Good 
word  that  —  The  Army  must  laugh  in  its  sleeve 
when  they  call  it  that.  When  the  division  is  out 
for  a  rest,  it's  the  hardest  time  they  have :  drills, 
parades  —  endless  fatigues.) 

I  am  great  friends  now  with  the  Madame  who 
owns  our  wash-house  home.    Sometimes  she  asks 


126       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

B.  and  me  in  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  we  give  her 
part  of  our  parcels  for  the  pickaninnies,  as  they 
call  the  children  here.  Across  the  street  is  an 
old,  old  woman  who  I  call  my  grandmere.  She 
calls  me  "Poppa",  and  comes  in  to  see  us  some- 
times. She  is  a  great  old  scout,  wears  the  fa- 
miliar sabots.  She  has  a  face  like  an  old,  old  apple. 
A  man  who  is  married  for  some  reason  stands 
ace  high  with  her.  When  you  go  to  see  her,  you 
must  sit  with  her  and  be  right  at  home.  B.  is 
the  gentil  Caporal  to  her;  she  likes  him,  too. 
She  has  a  high,  shrill  voice  you  can  hear  three 
blocks  away ;  and  a  heart  of  gold.  When  the 
old  French  Madames  are  good,  they  are  very, 
very  good ;  but  when  they  are  bad,  they  are  just 
shrews.  Of  course,  there  are  no  men,  only  those 
who  work  in  the  mines,  and  some  very  old 
men.  In  one  sector  of  the  front,  the  French 
lost  seventy  thousand  men  in  one  battle,  in  the 
early  days  of  the  war;  but  we  shall  regain  that 
ground,  this  year,  and  much  more.  We  have  the 
guns  now. 

To  give  you  an  insight  into  the  "every  day- 
ness"  the  "  so-used-to-it "  feeling  of  things  held 
by  the  civilians  here  :  the  other  day,  old  Madame's 
niece,  who  is  married  and  whose  husband  is  in 
the  "Transhays",  came  home  at  noon,  an  un- 
usual thing.  She  works  in  a  laundry.  B.  says, 
"Hello,  a  holiday  today,  eh?"  or  words  to  that 
effect. 


UP  THE  LINE  127 

The  girl  says,  quite  unmoved,  "But  no,  Mon- 
sieur. The  Bosche,  he  threw  over  one  big  bomm 
bomm.  It  fell  in  the  laundry  yard,  and  the  mon- 
sieur he  say,  'You  all  go  home  today.'" 

Imagine  the  concern  if  the  Bosche  threw  one 
little  high  explosive  shell  into  the  yard  of  the 
laundry  at  Ottawa ! 

We  are  worrying  Fritz  night  and  day  here 
now.  He  is  never  allowed  a  rest.  The  scream  of 
the  "big  heavies"  passing  over  is  with  us  most  all 
the  time,  and  the  little  eighteen  pounders  closer 
up  are  always  at  it.  We  have  him  beat,  and  so 
careful  is  he  of  his  ammunition,  or  disclosing  a 
battery,  that  he  seldom  replies.  He  does  some- 
times, though.  I  guess  he  gets  exasperated,  and 
feels  he  has  to. 

These  are  great  adventures,  the  great  one  for 
many;  but  they  don't  get  the  limelight.  We 
are  close  enough  up  to  the  line  for  us  to  see  things 
in  our  wash  house  when  they  are  up.  A  big 
raid  is  usually  about  two  hundred  men.  They 
creep  over  with  blackened  faces,  mostly  on  their 
tummies,  with  fixed  bayonets,  bombers  in  the 
lead.  Immediately  before  this  comes  off,  usually 
for  two  minutes  or  so,  the  artillery  puts  up  a 
bombardment,  the  like  of  which  you  cannot 
imagine.  This  is  to  clear  Fritz's  men.  If  this 
is  not  done  completely,  the  boys  must  come  back 
—  some  of  'em.  These  raids  serve  several  pur- 
poses.    We  find  out   just   what  Fritz  is   doing 


128       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

in  the  trenches,  destroy  machine  gun  emplace- 
ments, but,  main  thing,  bring  back  prisoners. 
From  them  the  Intelligence  Staff,  which  by  the 
way  is  wonderful,  find  out  what  regiments  are 
"in",  who  is  holding  that  particular  bit  of  line, 
and  many,  many  other  things. 

We  control  No  Man's  Land  from  La  Bassee 
to  the  Somme  —  something  to  say.  Fritz's  raids 
are  only  a  joke;  his  attacking  days  are  over, 
anyway.  You  will  note  how  almost  absurdly 
confident  I  am.  I  am  using  my  own  intelli- 
gence; these  ideas  I  have  not  got  from  others. 
We  are  top  dog  —  every  one  knows  it.  Thou- 
sands and  thousands  will  make  the  great  sacri- 
fice, of  course.  It  will  not  be  easy ;  but  the  game's 
now  ours.  We  only  await  the  word.  Wre  have 
everything,  men,  guns,  everything,  and  the  win- 
ning spirit.  No  one  is  crazily  elated.  It's  a 
job  of  work  to  be  done  calmly  and  quietly ;  and 
it  will  be  done.     And  then  we'll  come  home. 

Recently  our  bunch  have  provided  the  Prison 
Guard  —  that  is,  the  German  prisoners.  In 
the  morning,  you  go  down,  stick  five  rounds  in 
your  magazine,  fix  your  bayonet,  and  take  a 
couple  or  so  hundred  prisoners  out  to  work.  You 
go  in  motor  lorries,  about  forty  to  a  truck  and 
two  guards.  The  bayonet-fixing  is  a  matter  of 
form  and  a  joke;  one  couldn't  drive  Fritzie  to 
escape  with  a  club.  About  seven  miles  out  are 
some  stone  quarries,  and  they  break  big  stones 


UP  THE  LINE  129 

into  little  ones  for  the  road.  Taking  them  in 
the  bunch,  they  are  a  poor-looking  lot  —  Somme 
prisoners  chiefly.  I  was  rather  interested  in 
the  job,  as  I  like  to  talk  to  them,  hear  their  point 
of  view,  etc.  They  wear  the  uniform  they  were 
taken  in,  for  the  most  part.  Some  wear  an  old 
Canadian  cap;  most  wear  puttees  they  have 
made  for  themselves  out  of  sandbags.  Those 
with  no  overcoats  carry  an  English  issue  rubber 
sheet,  same  as  ours.  All  carry  gas  masks.  Guess 
they  know  their  value.  Their  food  is  the  same 
as  ours.  They  work  just  as  little  as  they  can 
get  away  with,  and  laugh  and  talk  and  smoke 
to  their  heart's  content.  "For  me  the  war  is 
finished"  is  their  tune. 

Part  of  the  day  I  was  on,  I  was  taking  small 
parties  of  my  own  to  different  jobs.  On  one 
occasion  a  man  said  to  me,  — 

"Are  you  the  man  who  is  taking  us  to  fetch 
that  lumber?" 

"Lumber I"  says  I.  "I  guess  you  learnt  that 
word  in  America." 

"Sure,  I'm  from  New  Haven,  Conn." 

A  good-natured,  merry  little  man,  it  appeared 
he  was  on  a  trip  home  to  Germany  in  1914  when 
they  grabbed  him  for  the  army  —  very  much  to 
his  disgust.  I  guess  he  saw  to  it  he  was  captured ; 
the  Canucks  took  him  at  Courcelotte.  I  asked  him 
about  the  war.  His  remarks  are  unwritable  —  but 
—  he'd  like  to  see  Kaiser  Bill  in  the  trenches. 


130       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Of  course  he  doesn't  work ;  he  is  invaluable  as 
an  interpreter.  He  was  quite  happy,  very  fat, 
merry  and  contented.  And  —  I  rather  gathered 
he  held  his  "Kamerads"  in  contempt;  he  was 
"American." 

Others  I  talked  to,  who  had  a  little  English, 
told  me  Bapaume  and  Peronne  were  untakable  ; 
that  the  war  would  finish  in  three  weeks.  All 
agreed  that,  but  for  England  finding  the  money, 
the  war  would  have  been  over  long  ago,  with 
victory  to  the  Allemagne.  But  victory  is  al- 
ready theirs  —  no  doubt  of  it.  The  little  tubby 
man  from  New  Haven,  though,  was  silent. 

Write  and  tell  me  of  everything  —  the  little 
things  —  and  often.  What  Billie  says.  What 
you  say.  What  you  do.  And  what  you  think. 
Everything.     You  are  my  life. 

26  January,  '17. 
My  dear  Lai :  — 

I  haven't  written  for  a  day  or  two  because  it 
has  been  positively  too  cold.  Sounds  rather 
funny,  but  it's  true.  Our  billet,  which  is  cosy 
enough  for  ordinary  weather,  has  quite  fallen 
down  on  this  Canadian  kind.  These  little  out- 
house places  are  not  meant  to  live  in,  in  the  first 
place;  but  pass  alright  for  ordinary  weather. 
We  never  noticed  till  a  day  ago,  for  instance, 
that  there  are  two  holes  in  the  roof  and  several 
million  holes  around  the  walls  and  floor.     We 


UP  THE  LINE  131 

have  stopped  up  all  we  can,  and  we  look  after 
the  stove  with  more  care  than  you  ever  did  Billie. 
We  just  cannot  get  warm.  To  make  things  worse, 
a  draft  came  in  with  no  blankets,  and  we  had  to 
cash  in  our  extra  ones,  so  now  we  have  only  two 
each.  I  have  never  seen  weather  like  this  out- 
side Canada.  Paris  said  yesterday  was  the 
coldest  day  on  the  Western  front.  Honestly  it's 
the  limit.  What  it's  like  in  the  trenches  won't 
bear  thinking  of.  Indeed,  I  don't  know  how  they 
stand  it  at  all. 

I  am  tremendously  thankful  for  my  more  or 
less  easy  job.  Working  parties  and  parades 
don't  look  good  to  me  just  now.  When  at  home 
here,  we  sit  huddled  over  our  portable  small 
stove ;  when  at  work,  there  is  not  time,  and  what 
there  is,  is  spent  trying  to  warm  up. 

31  January,  '17. 
My  dearest  Lai : 

Conditions  are  just  the  same,  only  a  trifle 
more  so.  I'm  writing  this,  sitting  almost  plumb 
on  top  of  the  wee  stove  we  have,  and  I  am  freez- 
ing to  death,  at  that.  It  doesn't  even  improve 
when  it's  bedtime.  Two  blankets  in  this  are 
just  about  as  much  use  as  none  at  all.  To  give 
you  an  idea :  last  night  I  don't  suppose  the  stove 
went  out  till  about  twelve,  yet  at  six  this  morning, 
a  mess  tin  of  water  left  on  it  over  night  was 
frozen  solid, 


132       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

When  I  look  back  on  conditions  as  they  were 
here  when  I  first  came,  and  now,  I  am  very  im- 
pressed with  the  change.  Every  day  seems  to 
add  something  to  our  already  splendid  organiza- 
tion. Every  now  and  then  we  put  up  a  bom- 
bardment which  must  be  an  eye-opener  to  Fritz. 
To  give  you  some  comparison  to  go  by,  I'm  told 
by  one  who  was  there,  that  last  year  at  Ypres 
nothing  like  the  amount  of  shells  were  put  over 
by  us.  At  that  time,  of  course,  Ypres  was  the 
most  important  point  of  the  British  line.  This 
point  is  hardly  ever  mentioned  in  the  commu- 
niques, yet  we  can  now  bombard  more  on  an  insig- 
nificant front  than  we  could  last  year  on  the  most 
important.  You  remember  I  told  you  Fritz 
never  retaliates  in  either  shells  or  planes.  That 
is  changed.  He  is  quite  frequently  over  us  now ; 
but  not  in  any  strength,  never  more  than  two 
planes  at  once.  Also  he  throws  an  odd  shell 
over  now  and  then;  but  nothing  to  matter, 
anyway  not  near  our  billets. 

You  don't  think  that  I  spend  my  time  picking 
rats  out  of  my  clothes  and  skipping  out  of  the 
way  of  Fritz's  shells ;  do  you  ?  Not  a  blooming 
shell  has  fallen  within  a  mile  of  me  as  yet.  I  wish 
it  would;  I  want  to  see  one  bust.  I'm  far  safer 
than  I  should  be  helping  you  to  light  the  furnace 
at  77 

I'm  worried,  too,  terribly  worried.  It's  whether 
my  turn  for  leave  will  come  before  it  shuts  down 


UP  THE  LINE  183 

for  good.  Believe  me  that's  some  worry  to  pack 
around.  The  thing  I  chiefly  long  for  on  leave  — 
or  things,  I  should  say  —  are  unlimited  hot  baths, 
meals  brought  to  me  by  somebody  else,  no  reveille, 
and  lots  of  good  shows.  Do  you  realize  the  fact, 
when  I  tell  you  I  haven't  been  inside  a  bath  for 
thirteen  months,  only  stood  in  drafty  thin  huts 
under  a  shower,  a  very  poor  substitute  indeed. 
I  think  you  will  faintly  imagine  the  luxury  of 
sitting  in  hot  water,  with  a  cigarette  and  an  eve- 
ning paper.  I  intend  —  should  luck  favour  me 
—  to  spend  considerable  of  my  leave  sitting 
in  a  bath.  And  eats !  I  haven't  really  had  a 
decent  feed  for  a  year.  But  most,  I  think  is  the 
longing  for  one  short  spell  away  from  military 
discipline.     My  God,  how  I  hate  it ! 

There  is  a  concert  here  every  Wednesday; 
but  it's  held  in  an  old  marquee,  and  the  weather 
doesn't  make  me  feel  much  like  going  to  'em. 
Also,  every  Saturday,  there's  a  boxing  tourna- 
ment open  to  the  whole  division,  but  I  don't  go 
to  them  for  the  same  reason.  I  never  go  to  the 
Y.,  because  it's  too  far  away,  and  there's  nothing 
there  anyway  —  I  mean  not  a  sort  of  club,  like 
the  Boulogne  one  was.  Up  here,  war  is  a  business, 
and  you  have  to  be  on  the  job.  Down  at  the 
base,  it's  a  sort  of  glorified  picnic. 

I  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this  about  the 
cold,  and  spoke  of  it  in  the  past  tense.  Tonight 
again  it  settled  down  in  a  regular  Canadian  freeze. 


134       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

I  am  sitting  right  on  top  of  the  stove,  with  my 
candle  propped  on  somebody's  parcels  beside 
me.  One  side  is  cold,  the  other  twenty-five 
degrees  colder.  It's  rotten  weather.  We  have 
lots  and  lots  to  strafe  it  for. 

15  February,  '17. 

My  life  at  present  has  got  into  a  groove,  it 
would  seem,  and  each  day  is  exactly  alike. 
I  have  got  used  to  bombardments.  Even  as  I 
write,  Fritz  is  almost  directly  above,  and  our 
men  are  trying  after  him  on  all  sides. 

The  thaw,  I  think,  has  set  in  for  good,  and  it's 
more  than  welcome,  though  the  mud  and  wet 
are  pretty  bad.  I  got  a  new  pair  of  boots  just 
in  time,  the  first  pair  I've  ever  had  in  the  army, 
so  can  keep  fairly  dry. 

Leave  is  stopped  now  for  some  days,  and  my 
little  vacation  seems  as  far  off  as  ever.  I  suppose 
the  trouble  is  in  regard  to  boats.  Fritz  is  sink- 
ing a  lot  of  boats,  a  devil  of  a  lot,  and  even  though 
it  seems  so  good  that  the  U.  S.  has  broken  with 
Germany  and  all  that,  so  many  ships  will  not 
sail,  and  our  supplies  must  be  curtailed.  I  may 
be  wrong  —  I  hope  I  am  —  but  I  think  this  is 
an  anxious  time  for  us,  and  I  believe  history  will 
show  it.  However  we  shall  cope  with  it  and 
overcome  it,  and  that's  the  main  thing. 

You  will  notice  that  a  great  many  raids  are 
being  pulled  off  just  now.     A  good  many  are 


UP  THE  LINE  135 

pulled  off  on  our  bit  of  front  —  any  time  of  night 
now.  All  at  the  same  second,  a  perfect  roar 
starts  up  —  every  gun  at  once.  It's  rather  mag- 
nificent while  it  lasts.  Last  night  it  was  very 
dark  while  I  was  taking  my  messages,  and  the 
gun  flares  were  most  welcome  as  they  lit  up  the 
road  most  opportunely. 

17  February,  '17. 

The  time  for  our  battalion  to  send  up  a  draft 
has  come  at  last.  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  write 
you  tonight  till  I'm  sure  they  won't  want  me; 
but  I  am  pretty  sure,  not  on  this  one.  I  think, 
when  my  name  comes  up,  "not  available"  will 
be  the  order;  I  hope  so  anyhow.  There's  lots 
of  time  yet,  lots  of  it. 

We  are  of  course  interested  in  this  move  on 
the  Somme;  but  no  one  seems  to  be  enthusiastic 
because  no  one  seems  to  quite  understand  it. 
The  general  opinion  seems  to  be  that  Fritz  has 
something  up  his  sleeve;  we  seem  to  be  sus- 
picious of  "retirements";  we  only  understand 
complete  annihilation  by  big  gun  fire.  We 
hear  now  and  then  weird  stories  of  a  new  and 
powerful  shell,  but  nothing  definite.  One  thing, 
however,  I  can  vouch  for.  I  have  seen  a  copy  of 
a  German  officer's  (captured)  report  to  his  head- 
quarters, mentioning  our  using  a  new  and  ter- 
rible explosive.  However,  he  may  have  been 
a  green  hand  and  got  over-excited.     A  few  days 


136       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

after  I  saw  this,  it  appeared  in  the  English  papers 
—  the  copy  of  the  captain's  report,  I  mean.  You 
can  guess  whether  these  communiques  are  inter- 
esting or  not.  I  can't  tell  you  of  them,  of  course ; 
but  I  may  say  that  we  know  the  names  of  the 
company  commanders  in  front  of  us  on  each 
sector  of  practically  every  relief;  we  know  what 
regiments  are  in  front;  where  they  came  from 
last;  in  what  strength  they  are,  and  all  about 
them;  we  know  when  they  commence  a  new 
trench  or  sap,  where  it  runs,  when  (if)  it's  fin- 
ished, and  also  all  about  it  and  many,  many 
other  things.  How  is  it  done?  There  you've 
got  me.  I  dunno' ;  but  I  do  know  it  is  done, 
because  I  see  it.  If  any  one  says  to  you  we 
haven't  got  an  Intelligence  Staff,  you  can  afford 
to  smile.  .  .  . 

18  February,  '17. 

.  .  .  While  on  this  subject,  I'm  afraid  there 
are  going  to  be  some  fierce  ructions  here  and 
there  in  Canada,  after  the  boys  come  home.  I 
read  an  article  the  other  day  on  "Slackers  — 
the  Army  is  Watching  Them."  The  fellow  who 
wrote  this  was  an  officer  and  he'd  got  his  ideas 
from  censoring  the  boys'  mail.  Every  one  who 
writes  to  a  soldier  tells  him  about  the  slacker 
who  did  not  go :  the  girls  —  his  own  people  — 
every  one,  and  he  writes  back  and  says  what  he 
thinks  of  'em. 


UP  THE  LINE  137 

He  is  too  busy,  and  life  is  too  jolly  uncertain, 
to  worry  much  about  it  —  now.  But  wait,  when 
he  is  home  and  feeling  safe  and  good.  Do  you 
think  he  will  want  to  pal  in  with  a  chap  who  stayed 
safe?  I  don't  think.  Do  you  think  he  will 
not  rub  it  in  now  and  then  —  maybe  roughly  ? 
I  wonder  if  the  slackers  have  ever  thought  of 
this.  If  they  have  —  well,  I'm  sorry  for  them ; 
their  thoughts  can't  be  pleasant. 

20  February,  '17. 

I  often  think  how  significant  it  is  —  how  the 
world  for  years  and  years  has  covered  itself 
with  a  sort  of  armour.  Very  clever  it  all  was. 
People  with  money  and  no  brains,  to  cover  their 
lack  of  brains  hedged  themselves  around  and 
called  the  hedge  class  distinction,  even  educated 
themselves  in  separate  schools,  using  a  different 
accent  and  form  of  speech.  What  a  joke  !  Then 
along  comes  this  war  —  more  than  a  war,  that 
word  doesn't  describe  it  —  and  off  has  to  come 
the  armour,  and  a  man  is  just  a  man  —  or  not 
—  as  God  made  him.  What  surprises,  what 
shocks  must  have  occurred !  But  you  can't  real- 
ize it  as  I  can,  because  you  have  never  seen  the 
home  life  of  England  as  I  have. 

Right  here  in  our  little  shack  is  a  splendid 
example.  There's  a  young  Englishman  million- 
aire, an  ideal  boy  at  a  pink  tea,  able  to  talk  rot 
to  women  by  the  hour,  very  careful  in  his  appear- 


138       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

ance  —  and  quite  useless  to  any  one.  Along 
comes  the  war  and  dear  little  F.  enlists;  he  is  a 
duck  in  his  uniform,  and  holds  his  own  right  up 
till  he  reaches  the  front  line ;  then  —  falls  all  to 
pieces.  Quite  helpless  —  opinion  worthless  — 
just  ignored.  And  then  B. !  Quite  useless  at  a 
pink  tea,  would  be  unnoticed  anywhere  at  home. 
He  runs  an  electric  crane  or  something  for  a 
living,  has  worked  ever  since  he  could  walk, 
nearly.  Here,  where  things  matter,  B.  is  looked 
up  to,  his  opinion  counts;  he  wins  promotion; 
an  ideal  man  to  live  with,  a  hustler  and  a  man. 

Now  —  when  it's  over  what's  going  to  happen  ? 
Do  we  drift  back  in  the  same  groove  ? 

I  tell  you  yes,  with  a  slight  difference,  only  — 
F.  again  will  be  the  pretty  useless  doll  (only  more 
so  as  he'll  talk  F.  and  war) ;  but  only  till  he  gets 
in  company  with  those  who  have  been  and  seen. 
Then  he'll  beat  it,  of  course.  B.  will  be  as  be- 
fore, too.  He'll  never  talk  war ;  but  he'll  have 
added  a  number  of  staunch  friends,  friends  for  life. 

And  that  is  my  opinion  of  how  it  will  be.  These 
cases  are  typical  of  many  thousands  of  others; 
it  just  happens  that  I  live  with  the  two  extremes. 

Curious. 

There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  else,  just 
yet,  happening  between  the  U.  S.  and  Fritz, 
but  I  really  think  it  will  be  war.  Lens  has  not 
opened  up  yet  and  there  are  no  signs  that  it  will 
lift.     There's  a  fellow  I  came  up  with  from  Le 


UP  THE  LINE  139 

Havre  due  back  tonight.  I  used  to  knock 
around  with  him  quite  a  bit.  He  was  LCpl. 
here.  As  he  knew  something  of  bombing  they 
made  him  Sgt.  Instructor.  He  learned  on  the 
Somme,  by  the  way.  He  taught  me  here.  One 
day  while  teaching  a  bunch  of  recruits,  a  fellow 
lost  his  nerve  —  they  do  sometimes  —  and  after 
pulling  out  the  pin,  got  scared  and  dropped  the 
bomb  into  the  next  bay  where  there  were  three 
officers  and  a  man.  There  was  just  five  seconds 
to  act.  G.  ran  around  the  bay,  picked  up  the 
bomb  and  just  got  it  over  the  parapet  in  time.  .  .  . 

3  March,  '17. 
My  very  dear  Lai, 

The  weather  still  remains  most  boisterous  and 
stormy,  the  wind  is  terribly  cold  too,  and  there 
seems  little  chance  of  the  wind  decreasing  any 
as  yet. 

I  saw  something  this  morning  most  interesting ; 
a  large  number  of  our  boys  going  through  an 
attack  as  nearly  similar  to  what  they  will  have  to 
contend  with  as  possible.  They  used  flares  and 
worked  in  conjunction  with  aeroplanes  circling 
a  few  feet  above.  The  planes  signalled,  "Morse 
code",  I  think,  with  motor  horns.  It  was  most 
realistic.  Signalling  the  lifting  of  the  barrage 
was  rather  amusing.  Two  men  with  white  flags 
advanced  ahead,  and  were  supposed  to  represent 
it.     Hardly  looked  the  real  thing.     Any  thought 


140       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

of  a  home  manoeuvre  or  sham  battle,  though,  must 
be  quickly  dispelled,  when  you  remember  that  in 
a  very  short  while  it  will  be  done  again  through  a 
hell  of  real  fire. 

(I  wondered  last  night  if  I  am  taking  too  many 
liberties  with  green  envelopes.  In  Orders  were 
four  battalions  who  had  lost  the  privilege  through 
one  man  being  indiscreet.  The  name  of  the  in- 
dividual one  was  published.  I  think  I'd  sooner  be 
shot  than  have  my  battalion  lose  through  me,  — 
I  guess  I  would  be,  anyway,  —  I  must  be  very 
careful.) 

In  bed  —  most  uncomfortable  ! ! ! ! 

The  runner  who  goes  for  the  mail  returned  with 
some  awful  news,  tonight  —  awful !  The  29th 
want  twenty  more  men  on  Tuesday,  and  I  don't 
think  there  are  twenty  men  here,  so  —  your  uncle 
will  have  to  partee  (French  for  beat  it).  B.  sent 
me  the  news  with  a  message  that  a  pal  of  ours 
had  volunteered  to  go  as  he  had  not  got  cold  feet. 
I'm  sending  him  a  message  that  he  has  to  go,  too. 
I've  been  making  a  cover  for  my  Gillette  tonight 
out  of  waterproof  silk  usually  used  on  wounds  — 
also  one  for  my  diary  (for  I  keep  a  diary  now)  in 
anticipation. 

Personally  I  think  I'm  lucky  to  have  got  the 
worst  of  the  winter  over  in  positive  luxury. 

I  hate  (and  fear)  cold  and  wet;  but  when  the 
sun  shines  and  it's  warm,  I'm  awful  brave,  ready 
to  eat  up  all  the  Fritzes  in  France. 


UP  THE  LINE  141 

I  particularly  hope  they  make  me  a  stretcher 
bearer ;  but  they  may  not.  There's  no  honour  in 
the  damn  job,  and  no  chance  of  advancement,  or 
anything  but  work.  But  I  like  the  work  and  I 
understand  it  a  little,  while  I  hate  looking  after  a 
beastly  gun  and  forming  fours  and  all  that.  If 
I'm  not  a  stretcher  bearer,  I  shall  try  my  best  to 
be  a  bomber  or  a  gunner  —  something  you  can 
specialize  on. 

17th  of  Ireland,  '17. 
My  very  dearest  Kid :  — 

A  few  days  ago,  I  was  sent  out  as  stretcher 
bearer  to  a  party  going  up  to  work  farther  up  the 
line.  I  was  tickled  to  death,  as  this  place,  after 
five  months,  is  getting  monotonous.  We  marched 
off  in  the  afternoon  with  full  kit :  two  blankets, 
tin  hat  of  course,  and  all,  and  believe  me  I  was 
thankful  I  didn't  have  a  rifle  to  carry  nor  am- 
munition, only  a  few  medical  supplies,  —  just 
bandages  and  dressings,  and  a  bottle  of  iodine  in 
case  of  bad  accidents.  There  is  always  a  field 
ambulance  somewhere  near. 

Well  —  we  eventually  arrived  and  found  our 
billets,  in  huts  like  I  have  told  you  of,  and  like  the 
pictures  you  have  seen  of  the  Y.M.  huts.  Inside 
are  rows  of  bunks  three  high,  with  chicken  wire 
as  a  mattress.  Anyway  that  night,  hearing  the 
29th  were  near,  I  set  out  to  find  them,  which  I  did 
after  a  long  hunt,  in  a  village.     There  I  met  B. 


142       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

and  all  the  others  I  knew,  and  stayed  the  night, 
borrowing  an  overcoat  and  blanket  to  sleep  in. 
I  half  wish  I'd  come  for  good.  They  seem  a  great 
crowd. 

I  have  always  been  under  the  impression  that 
it  was  busy  back  where  we  were;  but  up  there 
was  a  surprise.  No  word  of  mine  could  begin  to 
describe  it  —  even  if  I  were  allowed.  It's  terrific 
—  absolutely  unbelievable.  Miles  and  miles  in 
endless  procession  of  munitions  and  men. 

Wait  while  she  opens  up  —  and  you'll  hear  all 
about  it. 

Next  day,  I  went  out  with  my  party,  who  were 
to  keep  a  railroad  track  which  runs  right  into  the 
support  trenches,  —  a  positive  cinch  for  me  — 
nothing  to  do  at  all.  One  fellow  cut  himself  with 
the  shovel.  Another  fellow  had  a  sore  heel. 
And  another  fellow  had  to  go  with  the  field  am- 
bulance ;  he  had  the  grippe,  and  they  kept  him 
there.     That  was  all  I  had  in  the  few  days. 

Next  night,  the  Corporal  in  charge  and  myself 
took  over  a  tent  and  moved  in  with  the  party 
rations.  It  was  about  a  foot  deep  in  mud  and 
water;  but  you  get  used  to  that,  and  with  a  kit 
bag,  which  I  used  sleeping  bag  fashion,  and  several 
sandbags  I  slept  fine.  Read  awhile  —  "The 
American  Prisoner"  by  Phillpotts — by  the  light 
of  two  candles  stuck  on  my  tin  hat  at  the  head 
of  my  bed  in  the  mud.  It  was  altogether  much 
cosier  than  in  the  hut,  more  private,  and  nicer 


UP  THE  LINE  143 

everyway.  The  Corporal  wasn't  a  bad  fellow, 
either,  and  we  got  on  well. 

I  can't  tell  you  exactly  when  I'll  go  up;  but 
about  any  time,  I  think.  I  am  quite  ready ;  the 
days  are  warmer,  though  the  nights  are  still  cold. 
I  am  anxious  to  go ;  the  sight  up  there  got  me  all 
excited.  To  be  out  of  it  is  to  be  out  of  everything 
worth  while.  I  would  not  miss  the  beginning  for 
anything.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  boys  tells  me  it  is  awfully  dark  and 
hard  to  find  your  way  in  the  trenches  at  night.  I 
guess  this  will  be  rather  rotten  for  me,  because 
my  eyes  are  none  too  good  at  night. 

I  am  thinking  about  you  and  storing  up  things 
to  tell  you  about  all  the  time,  though  I  won't  be 
able  to  tell  you  anything  yet  awhile. 

I  never  do  or  see  anything  that  you  do  not 
share  with  me  in  spirit. 

Good-bye  for  a  day  or  so,  Lai  dearest. 

18  March,  '17. 

Things  are  still  going  jolly  fine.  You  have 
read  often  about  the  cages  we  put  the  German 
prisoners  in.  Well,  I  have  been  busy  this  two  days 
helping  make  one  of  barbed  wire.  It's  some  way 
from  here  and  we  go  over  in  auto  trucks.  Today 
it  was  fine  but  beastly  cold;  I  nearly  froze. 
Yesterday,  when  we  were  working,  who  should 
go  by  but  two  of  my  very  old  tent  mates  from 
No.  3,  who  had  left  later  than  we  and  gone  to 


144       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

another  outfit  camped  near  here.  We  may  see 
something  of  them,  as  they  are  attached  to  the 
2nd  Div.  too.  .  .  . 

We  passed  two  observation  balloons  yesterday. 
You  have  seen  pictures  of  them;  they  look  big 
enough  to  fly  away  with  the  engine  affair  which 
holds  them  down  by  what  looked  to  me  a  terribly 
thin  cable.  Aeroplanes,  of  course,  are  over  all 
the  time  —  ours.  I  haven't  seen  any  of  Fritz's 
yet.  The  guns  are  going  most  of  the  time.  At 
night,  you  can  hear  the  machine  guns,  too.  Every- 
thing is  all  most  casual  and  "every  day  alike." 
Last  night  we  went  for  an  evening  stroll.  A 
Frenchman,  passing,  said, 

"  Masshin  —  Masshin  pop-pop-pop — No  bon-no 
bon  —  No  —  no  bon,  M'sieur."  —  referring  to  a 
machine  gun  in  the  distance. 

I  mention  this  to  give  you  an  idea  of  a  passing 
salutation  of  the  evening  "out  here."  You  would 
probably  say  "it's  a  fair  night."  Both  remarks 
would  have  the  same  enthusiasm  or  spirit.  "It's 
an  awful  war, "  to  quote  a  popular  phrase. 

Harold  Chapin  in  his  letters  said  he  had  heard 
more  genuine  laughter  out  here  than  anywhere  else 
in  his  life — I  guess  he  was  right  too — human 
nature  is  queer. 

21  March,  '17. 
My  Ownest  Lai :  — 

I  am  writing  this  on  my  knee  by  an  old  oil  can 
which  has  been  made  into  a  stove  in  one  of  the 


UP  THE  LINE  145 

familiar  huts  away  down  along  the  line  —  for  again 
I  have  been  sent  out  as  S.B.  for  a  working  party. 

This  morning,  I  got  my  orders  to  come  and 
relieve  a  man  who  has  been  out  here  some  time. 
So  I  packed  up  my  belongings,  few  as  they  are, 
and  set  out  on  my  hike.  I  hadn't  much  to  carry, 
the  steel  helmet  and  gas  mask  being  the  heaviest 
items,  I  guess.  I  got  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  tin  of  jam, 
a  can  of  beans  and  some  cocoa,  so  I  wouldn't 
starve.  It  was  a  cold  day  and  snowing  a  bit. 
Shortly,  however,  I  hit  a  stalled  motor  lorry,  and 
got  a  lift  a  good  part  of  the  way.  I  soon  found  the 
party's  billets  in  a  hut  right  next  the  Y.M.,  and 
found  the  other  S.B.  He  had  fixed  things  up  for 
himself  some,  had  a  little  table  affair  with  a  real 
drawer,  and  had  collected  a  good  stock  of  medi- 
cine from  the  adjacent  field  ambulance.  His  bed 
looked  real  cosy  in  the  middle  tier  of  bunks.  I 
took  it  all  over  from  him,  and  have  now  settled 
down.  He  has  just  gone  and  supper  will  soon  be 
here  —  and  the  boys  in.  It  looks  like  a  fine  job, 
if  it  lasts. 

I  act  as  M.O.  absolutely,  and  am  responsible. 
In  this  case,  I  don't  go  out  with  the  work  party, 
but  stay  in  the  hut.  Sick  parade  is  at  seven, 
when  I  see  which  men  should  go  in  the  field  am- 
bulance and  see  the  doctor.  Any  man  who  gets 
hurt  out  on  the  work  they  send  for  me.  The  rest 
—  the  cough  medicines,  binding  up  cuts,  and  so 
forth  —  I  do  here  at  night. 


146       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Next  day. 

Went  to  bed  early.  My  predecessor  certainly 
left  things  jake.  He  has  four  blankets  and  a  rub- 
ber coat.  At  the  head  of  the  bed,  he'd  rigged  up 
an  old  biscuit  tin  which  makes  a  swell  candle 
stand.  It  was  as  cosy  as  could  be  (you  will  note 
I  still  turn  in  early  to  read). 

Sometime  during  the  night,  I  was  wakened  up 
by  a  battalion  coming  in  to  sleep  in  spare  bunks. 
They  had  just  come  out  of  the  trenches  —  been 
in  ten  days  —  and  were  coming  out  for  a  ten  days' 
rest.  They  had  no  blankets,  and  it  was  snowing 
hard  outside;  but  I  never  heard  a  kick.  Guess 
they  were  too  glad  to  be  "out." 

The  last  time  I  saw  this  well-known  battalion 
was  on  review  at  Shorncliffe.  I  remember  how 
well  they  looked,  every  kilt  swinging  in  line.  I'd 
like  you  to  see  a  battalion  come  out  fresh  from  the 
line.  You  wouldn't  believe  it.  The  Scotch  cap 
had  given  place  to  the  steel  helmet  and  the  kilts 
to  trousers  and  puttees  —  what  you  could  see  of 
'em  for  mud.  Though  they  only  arrived  about 
one  or  two  a.m.,  their  Field  Kitchen  at  seven 
a.m.  had  hot  tea,  bacon  and  bread,  and  jam  and 
cheese  for  them,  so  good  is  the  system,  and  it 
never  breaks  down.  .  .  . 

The  only  thing  I  fear  is  the  weather,  the  wet, 
the  cold,  the  long  nights  and  the  mud  —  not  the 
shells,  though  I  guess  I'll  fear  them  enough  later. 


UP  THE  LINE  147 

And  every  day  spent  here  means  nearer  the 
warmer  weather.  .  .  . 

You  will  be  tremendously  impressed  with  the 
big  retreat  —  many  seem  to  think  it  very  smart 
of  Fritz  making  us  begin  all  over  again;  but  I 
think  it  is  not  thoroughly  understood.  It  is  a 
retreat  —  that's  the  main  thing. 

Understand  writing  is  always  most  difficult  now. 
Sitting  on  gasoline  tins  round  a  wee  brazier  made 
out  of  an  oil  can  —  it's  almost  impossible,  but  I'll 
do  my  best. 

22  March,  '17. 
My  dearest  Lai : 

Yesterday  I  went  back  to  work  on  another  of 
those  "cage"  things  I  was  telling  you  about,  a 
small  one  this  time  —  cosy,  two  huts  and  every- 
thing fine  —  too  fine  in  my  opinion. 

I  am  getting  quite  an  expert  at  the  wire  en- 
tanglement business,  and  if  any  Fritz  can  get 
through  the  path  I  made,  he'll  have  to  go  some. 
In  the  evening,  I  had  a  most  interesting  conversa- 
tion with  Fritz.  I  rather  hated  to  do  it.  He  was 
wearing  the  Iron  Cross  Ribbon  which  he  had  won 
twice,  and  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  the  numbers 
of  our  men  he  must  have  killed  to  win  it.  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  got  it  for  killing  Canadians.  He 
was  most  pitifully  emphatic  in  trying  to  convince 
me  he  had  only  been  up  against  the  French  (of 
course).     But  what  got  me  was  his  total  inability 


148       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

to  grasp  the  fact  that  this  war  could  last  over  this 
Christmas,  with  a  victory  for  Germany,  of  course. 
He  told  me  it  was  a  total  and  complete  impossi- 
bility to  take  Bapaume.  He  was  quite  serious. 
He  considers  the  war  as  won.  So  it  is  !  I  cannot 
understand  it.  If  the  German  soldiers  think  like 
that,  how  can  you  blame  the  civilians  ?  It  would 
seem  to  me  that  any  intelligent  man,  —  and  many 
of  their  prisoners  seem  very  intelligent  —  could 
not  help  reading  the  signs,  even  from  the  narrow 
confines  of  a  prison  camp.  Every  man  they  see 
has  victory  written  all  over  him.  They  couldn't 
look  up  in  the  air  at  any  time  of  the  day,  without 
seeing  one  of  our  aircraft  coming  or  going  in  per- 
fect peace.  Our  observation  balloons  are  plain 
to  see,  all  day.  No  one  molests  them.  It  would 
seem  to  me  that  this  gross  ignorance  of  the  real 
condition  is  going  to  prolong  the  war  more  than 
anything  else.  .  .  . 

29  March,  '17. 

I  didn't  finish  my  letter  last  night,  I  was  too 
cold.  This  morning  is  the  wildest  day  we've  had 
for  a  month,  a  tremendous  wind,  and  rain  and  cold. 
There  certainly  won't  be  many  planes  up  today; 
they  couldn't  last  a  second. 

The  other  night,  after  I  had  finished  writing 
you  and  was  just  off  to  sleep,  all  of  a  sudden  what 
sounded  like  all  the  guns  in  the  world  opened  up 
at  once,  and  sleep  was  out  of  the  question.     I 


UP  THE  LINE  140 

always  wish,  when  I  hear  or  see  anything  so 
magnificent,  so  powerful  as  that,  that  you  could 
be  with  me  for  a  while.  Here  is  like  having  a 
front  seat  out  of  danger.  I  read  somewhere  that 
to  imagine  a  modern  bombardment,  you  must  think 
of  the  greatest  thunderstorm  you  have  heard  and 
then  compare  it  with  a  little  boy  beating  a  drum ; 
and  I  guess  that's  about  right.  Myself,  I  never 
can  help  thinking  of  all  the  ground  and  stuff  being 
churned  up,  where  the  shells  are  all  bursting.  It's 
undoubtedly  awe-inspiring  and  magnificent.  It's 
unimagineable  how  anything  could  possibly  live  in 
the  face  of  it.  We  all  thought  that  the  big  strafe 
had  begun ;  but  evidently  it  wasn't  so. 

I  think  that  Fritz  will  have  his  hands  full  to 
hold  the  Arras-Cambrae-St.  Quentin  line,  and 
I  believe  he  thinks  that  the  time  we  shall  take 
coming  up  and  attacking  him  can  be  utilized  by 
him  on  another  front,  say  the  Russian  front. 

But  I  believe  we  intend  to  fool  him.  I  think  we 
are  going  to  drive  him  on  this  front,  beyond  any- 
thing that  has  happened  on  the  so-called  Somme 
front. 

We  may  even  take  Lens  and  Lille ;  we  may  do 
anything. 

One  thing  I  can  assure  you  of  positively;  that 
the  Somme  front  is  not  to  be  the  only  one  where 
we  shall  have  big  battles. 

Whether  we  can  win  this  year  or  not,  I  cannot 
think. 


150       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

America  coming  in,  which  now  seems  certain, 
is  bound  to  make  a  difference;  but  all  our  efforts 
might  be  cancelled,  at  least  in  part,  if  Austria  had 
big  successes  in  Italy,  or  Russia  could  not  make 
good. 

Chances  of  revolution  in  Germany  seem  to  me 
to  be  too  remote  to  entertain  seriously.  There 
is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  Canada  is  going  to 
take  a  larger  part  in  this  coming  battle.  It  is 
really  up  to  us.  We  didn't  take  the  worst  end  at 
the  Somme,  last  year;  the  Australians  are  there 
again,  as  you  will  know,  so  I  guess  we  cannot  kick. 

We'll  hope  it  won't  be  so  bad.  I  hear  it  on  an 
eye  witness's  authority  that  a  gun  in  this  scrap  will 
only  have  to  play  on  four  yards  of  Fritz's  front. 

Life  is  just  living.  I  mean  eating  and  sleeping 
and  "getting  by"  —  if  you  understand.  Meals 
are  eaten  standing  up;  an  old  gasoline  can  as  a 
seat  by  the  stove  is  a  lucky  grab  off,  as  there's 
such  a  crowd.  For  instance,  bunks  are  in  three 
tiers.  That  means  nine  men  in  a  space  about  four 
feet  broad.  You  eat  off  your  mess  tin,  and  wade 
through  the  mud  to  the  cookhouse  for  your  grub. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  now  just  an  animal, 
a  tiny  unit  for  use  in  this  vast  scheme,  or  a  tiny 
bit  of  machinery,  to  be  kept  alive  —  only  just 
alive  and  useful  at  the  least  possible  expense  and 
room.  That  of  course  is  war ;  I  thoroughly  under- 
stand it.  It's  quite  alright,  and  the  proper  thing. 
I  have  no  kick.     But  I  want  you  to  grasp  all  that, 


UP  THE  LINE  151 

so  you  can  understand  my  letters.  The  trenches 
are  full  of  mud  and  water,  and  my  life  by  com- 
parison is  positive  luxury. 

The  rations  are  not  so  bad.  I'll  tell  you  what 
we  get  exactly.  In  the  morning,  about  a  pint  of 
tea  —  (good  and  strong  as  a  rule)  either  beans  — 
(two  to  a  can)  or  a  rasher  of  bacon.  At  dinner, 
a  spoonful  of  jam,  and  a  hunk  of  cheese  and  tea. 
Supper,  tea  again  —  and  stew,  or  mulligan  as  the 
army  calls  it,  and  the  twenty-four  hours'  bread 
ration,  usually  a  third  of  a  loaf.  Sometimes  there 
is  an  extra,  though  seldom ;  a  kind  of  date  paste ; 
one  day  there  were  oranges.  But  of  course  by  the 
time  they  get  as  far  up  as  this,  the  various  "cease 
fire"  outfits  they  have  passed  through  only  leave 
enough  for  a  ration  of  three  men  to  one  orange, 
which  is  what  we  got.  It  doesn't  sound  very  re- 
markable, but  it's  enough  to  keep  you  fit ;  it  does 
me  anyway.  In  the  line,  the  bread  mostly  has 
to  give  way  to  biscuits;  but  when  "out"  eats  are 
again  good.  A  parcel  is  naturally  an  event  of 
great  importance. 

I  have  been  given  another  party  again  today, 
making  three  in  all.  I  have  to  handle  all  the  sick 
reports  for  each  party,  and  fix  up  all  the  trivial 
cuts  and  bruises,  and  medicines.  In  addition, 
there  are  various  parties  without  any  "Croix 
Rouge"  man  attached,  such  as  Isolated  Machine 
Gun  Companies  and  odd  parties  from  heavy  bat- 
teries, who  are  wise  to  my  being  here.     Of  course 


152       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

I  fix  up  any  of  them  who  come,  am  very  glad  to. 
I  like  the  work;  it  interests  me.  It  is,  too,  un- 
doubtedly necessary  work,  and  I  must  say  I  prefer 
work  which  seems  to  be  real  —  and  worth-while. 

1  April,  1917. 

As  I  said  previously,  I  have  changed  my  job. 
A  chance  came  along  to  get  into  the  Medical  Hut 
or  dressing  station  of  the  Battalion.  I  took  it, 
partly  because  I  want  the  practical  experience, 
more  in  medicine  of  which  I  know  nothing;  and 
partly  it  is  of  course  a  little  superior  job.  The 
one  thing  I  didn't  like  was  leaving  B.  and  the  old 
shack,  though  of  course  I  see  him  several  times  a 
day.  My  new  home  is  altogether  better,  only 
two  of  us  in  a  larger  room  with  electric  lights  and 
stove,  with  a  regular  mine  of  coal  from  the  Q.  M. 
stores.  I  sleep  on  a  stretcher  on  a  couple  of  boxes 
which  makes  a  very  fair  bed.  My  new  com- 
panion I  don't  know  very  well  as  yet.  The  work 
is  continuous,  though  of  course  not  hard.  I  help 
the  others  and  the  M.  O.  on  morning  sick  parade, 
which  is  sometimes  very  heavy.  We're  busy 
through  the  day  with  civilian  population.  Sur- 
prising to  you  I  guess  it  will  be  that  we  attend 
them;  but  we  do,  the  whole  town.  They  call 
through  the  day,  others  leave  messages  for  us  to 
call  at  their  homes.  There  are  more  of  these 
cases  than  there  are  soldiers.  We  get  everything 
from  bad  cases  to  little  seven-year-old  kids  who 


UP  THE  LINE  153 

cut  their  fingers  (I  dressed  a  little  boy's  hand  this 
morning — a  wee  cut — but  I  put  it  in  a  sling  and 
he  is  a  hero).  Of  course,  all  this  is  free  of  charge. 
Bad  cases  we  take  all  day  amongst  the  troops. 
The  regular  sick  parade  is  in  the  morning.  At 
night  —  at  six  p.m.  we  do  dressing  again. 

We  cook  our  own  rations,  which  are  very  ample, 
in  the  sick  room,  a  house  just  across  from  where  I 
sleep,  and  we  eat  and  sleep  more  like  civilized 
people  than  like  soldiers,  which  is  some  blessing. 
The  hours  are  long,  from  about  six-thirty  till  nine 
or  ten  p.m.  I  like  it.  Of  course  it  may  not  last 
long  —  maybe  a  month,  maybe  six  months ;  you 
cannot  tell.  They  may  need  us  in  the  line  any  time. 
In  cases  where  the  patient  is  very  bad,  we  send  him 
to  the  field  ambulance  which  is  usually  in  some 
chateau  or  school.  If  he  is  only  temporarily  bad, 
they  keep  him  until  he  is  well,  then  return  him  to 
us ;  if  bad  enough  for  base  hospital,  they  ship  him 
to  the  dressing  station  down  the  line,  and  so  on. 

Our  pay  is  delayed  this  time  for  some  reason. 
I  haven't  had  the  price  of  a  paper,  even,  for  over 
a  week  —  the  boys  down  here  are  just  the  same. 

Our  guns  brought  a  Fritz  down  here  this  a.m., 
with  the  assistance  of  some  of  our  planes  which 
drove  him  this  way. 

And  now  I  must  quit.  Supper  is  to  get  ready, 
and  then  the  evening  parade  of  sick. 

Give  Dad's  love  to  little  Billie.  And  best  love 
to  you. 


IV 
IN  THE  TRENCHES 


IV 
IN  THE  TRENCHES 

%  April,  '17  (morning). 

The  weather  has  taken  a  turn  for  the  worse, 
most  bitterly  cold  and  the  ground  covered  with 
snow  again.  Snow  over  mud,  ugh  ! ! !  Imagine 
it,  if  you  can.  Under  these  conditions,  thank  the 
Lord  I  am  well  —  most  tremendously  so. 

All  my  kit  is  packed,  on  the  expectation  of  hav- 
ing half  an  hour's  warning. 

All  is  good. 

A  tin  hat,  a  gas  mask,  a  razor,  a  towel,  a  tube 
of  medicated  vaseline  (swiped)  for  my  boots,  a 
knife,  fork,  and  spoon.  That's  about  all.  Your 
woolly  hat  is  worth  its  weight  in  ten  dollar  bills. 
It  isn't  quite  the  same  colour  as  it  was,  but  I'd 
sooner  lose  anything  than  that. 

Even  at  this,  my  kit  feels  heavy  enough. 

The  snow  drove  a  plane  down  just  now.  He 
was  not  hurt  and  flew  up  again,  when  the  storm 
blew  over.  It  must  be  desperately  cold  for  them 
and  the  observation  balloon  men. 

I'm  getting  quite  a  lot  of  work  now;  lots  of 
men  seem  to  be  going  sick.     Nothing  serious,  but 

157 


158       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

still  sick  —  boils,  and  so  on.  My  last  party  con- 
sisted of  French  Canadians ;  only  a  few  can  speak 
English.  It's  funny.  You'd  laugh  to  hear  me, 
"  Take  those  two  mit  now  —  and  this  one  apres 
midi  —  and  again  ce  soir." 

The  horses  are  standing  this  weather  very  badly. 
At  least  ten  are  shot  every  morning  and  thrown 
into  an  old  disused  trench.  .  .  . 

4  April,  '17. 
My  dearest  Lai,  — 

Yesterday  I  was  out  to  see  my  old  friends  where 
I  had  been  working,  and  where  I  wrote  you  from. 
While  there  the  runner  came  in  and  said  there 
was  a  small  draft  of  soldiers  going  up  to  the 
29th.  There  are  plenty  of  men  here  now,  as  a 
big  truck  came  up  from  the  base  a  couple  of 
days  ago. 

On  the  way  home  —  it  was  a  glorious  spring 
evening  —  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  couldn't 
wait  to  be  put  on  a  draft,  but  put  myself  on.  It 
seems  to  me  that  this  business  of  dodging  drafts 
is  getting  overdone  —  I  mean  by  the  men  who 
have  never  been  up.  When  a  man  has  been  up 
and  come  back  recovered  from  wounds,  I  don't 
blame  him  a  bit  for  trying  to  dodge  going  up  till 
some  of  the  new  bunch  have  had  to  go.  So  when 
I  reached  town,  I  went  and  saw  B.  who  is  making 
up  the  draft.  He  had  the  list  full,  but  took  a 
man  off  and  put  me  on, 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  159 

So  now,  you  know.  On  Sat.  —  "I  parti  pour  la 
tranchay,"  and  I  feel  all  excited. 

I  am  busy  sewing  holes  in  my  trousers,  putting 
buttons  on,  and  so  on.  I  have  very  little  to  pack, 
but  I  have  lots  of  odd  wants  in  the  way  of  equip- 
ment to  get,  my  rifle  to  get  in  condition  again, 
and  all  that.  We  have  an  O.C.  inspection  at 
ten  a.m.  Sat.,  and  then  off  we  go.  I  feel  awfully 
well,  and  as  keen  as  mustard. 

I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  of  my  de- 
cision ;  but  I  hope  you  will  approve.  It  is  much 
better  to  go  than  wait  to  be  sent,  when  it  looks 
as  if  you  had  been  hanging  back. 

Just  before  Easter.     Evening. 

I  am  finishing  this  off  in  bed.  It's  impossible 
to  sit  up  in  bed,  or  my  head  hits  the  next  bunk ; 
but  I'm  managing  rather  well,  have  got  three 
candles  on  my  tin  hat  and  my  pack  makes  a  fair 
desk.  It's  quite  warm  in  here  tonight.  We 
captured  an  extra  big  oil  drum  today,  and  have 
made  a  swell  stove.  It's  just  at  the  end  of  my 
bunk;  the  pipe  runs  out  through  a  door.  Every 
thing  is  very  primitive.  I'm  living  right  down  to 
brass  tacks  now.  My  kit  consists  of  only  the 
very  barest  necessities :  two  pairs  of  socks,  no 
change  of  shirt.  Even  at  that,  it's  enough  to 
look  after,  and  pack  away  at  a  second's  notice. 
As  things  are  here  now,  kit  is  very  plentiful,  as 
fellows  just  leave  everything  behind  when  they 


160       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

move.  I  wear  your  woolen  hat,  a  pair  of  high 
rubber  boots  (worth  about  twenty  bucks  this 
weather)  and  long  rubber  cape.  When  I  go,  I'll 
just  leave  it  behind. 

A  29th  Sgt.  friend  of  mine,  has  just  pulled  in 
with  another  working  party,  and  tells  me  I  have 
to  be  "the  doc."  to  their  party  too.  That's 
alright.  I  like  it.  I'm  "the  doc."  to  everybody. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  more  conscientious  and 
go  to  ten  times  more  trouble  under  these  condi- 
tions than  I  would  if  I  had  some  one  over  me. 

I  hear  again  that  our  battalion  is  away  over 
strength,  so  I  guess,  if  I'm  lucky,  I'll  miss  the 
first  big  battle,  which  will  be  the  hardest  of 
course.  You  may  or  may  not  know  that  Im- 
perials took  the  brunt  of  the  Somme.  When  the 
Canadians  got  there,  it  was  more  open  fighting, 
though  God  knows  it  was  bad  enough. 

This  time,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  the  Canucks 
are  going  to  open  the  game;  but  it's  going  to  be 
very,  very  different  from  the  Somme  in  many 
ways.  All  the  way  back  here,  the  ground  is 
marked  out  with  tapes  and  flags,  arranged  ac- 
cording to  our  pictures  exactly  as  Fritz  has  his 
trenches  in  front  of  the  particular  battalion  which 
will  take  that  section.  So,  if  the  officers  get 
killed,  the  men  know  just  what  to  do.  The  bat- 
talions have  been  made  familiar  with  them.  I 
have  been  over  some  of  them;  they  seem  very 
complicated.     Fritz  must  know  what's  coming. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  161 

As  far  as  I  can  see,  we  don't  give  a  damn  whether 
he  knows  or  not.  White  tents  are  dotted  in  the 
fields  all  over  here,  and  he's  up  in  the  air  all  the 
time.  Last  year,  too,  the  green  envelopes  were 
cut  out  —  remember  ?  Not  this  year,  though ; 
I  got  an  issue  yesterday. 

We  are  going  to  give  him  a  tremendous  licking 
right  here,  I  am  absolutely  sure  of  it ;  every  tiniest 
detail  is  perfect.     The  men  are  splendid  —  no  sick. 

The  battalions  even  shine  up  their  brass  work 
now,  and  are  all  over  strength. 

The  guns  and  supplies  are  beyond  anything  ever 
known  before  in  any  battle  in  the  world.  The 
food  is  plentiful  and  good. 

Confidence  is  absolutely  the  limit  —  Every  one 
is  laughing  and  cheery  as  a  lot  of  kids. 

You  must  try  and  understand  now  that  it  is 
harder  for  me  to  write  even  scrappy  stuff  like  this, 
than  great  long  letters  before.  We  must  leave 
psychological  questions  till  this  is  over  now.  I 
cannot  bother  to  figure  on  things  like  what  may 
happen  after  I  get  home. 

Please  send  parcels  regularly,  little  ones  and 
frequent.  Socks,  a  shirt  (we  never  get  a  bath 
now,  there  is  nowhere  to  bathe),  cake  (no  candy), 
a  towel,  soap,  a  can  of  cafe  au  lait,  half  a  pound 
of  butter,  if  you  think  it  would  keep.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  must  quit.  My  shoulder  is  about 
dislocated,  and  my  left  arm  is  asleep.  The  man 
in  the  top  bunk  has  gone  to  bed  and  the  wire 


162       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

netting  has  sunk  on  to  my  head,  so  you'll  forgive 
me,  eh  ? 

Tell  Billie  Dad  is  thinking  about  her  all  the 
time,  but  cannot  say  much  about  her  just  now. 

I  am  wonderfully  well,  absolutely  great,  and 
jake  all  round,  and,  with  everybody,  keen  and 
hopeful  of  the  future,  and  just  tickled  to  death 
every  day  that  I  have  left  the  base  and  am  here 
doing  a  really  bit. 

As  regards  my  wee  personal  interest  in  it  all, 
it  seems  that  my  luck  has  been  so  wonderfully 
good  all  along  that  it  must  be  going  to  stay  with 
me.     Let's  hope  so. 

Good  luck,  Kiddie.  Don't  worry  more  than 
you  can  help. 

Next  Day. 

It's  about  nine-thirty  or  ten  —  I've  just  got  up 
(active  service),  made  our  bed,  which  consists  of 
folding  up  four  blankets  and  a  rubber  sheet,  swept 
the  floor  (we  soon  pinched  a  broom).  The  floor  is 
six  by  eight  feet  so  sweeping  is  not  exactly  a  kill- 
ing job.  The  debris,  as  it  does  in  all  of  France  I 
have  seen,  is  thrown  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
to  wait  for  a  horse  and  cart  to  take  it  away.  Of 
course  we  only  live  amongst  the  working  classes 
and  the  peasants,  but  I  have  never  yet  seen  water 
laid  on  in  a  house.  There  is  a  well  or  a  pump 
somewhere  down  the  street,  usually  surrounded 
by  very  dirty  and  very  numerous  children,  many 
as  young  as  four  years  old,  with  all  kinds  and  con- 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  163 

ditions  of  pails  and  cans,  usually  far,  far  too  big 
for  them  to  carry.  When  you  go  to  get  a  mess 
tin  full,  the  majority  of  them  clamour  for  "one 
cigarette"  —  "one  pennee."  The  very  youngest 
little  girls  smoke  cigarettes  without  their  mother's 
minding  a  bit.  ...  I  have  yet  to  see  a  clean, 
fresh  peach  of  a  child.  Of  course  you  must  have 
in  mind  this  is  war  time,  the  people  are  dog  poor, 
the  men  are  away,  the  Germans  are  only  three 
miles  away.  It  is  a  mining  district,  and  their 
houses  are  all  occupied  by  "foreigners." 

The  fire  is  going  fine.  We  got  some  lovely 
coal  last  night  (after  dark),  and  we  just  had  two 
swell  pieces  of  toast.  W.  swiped  a  can  of  real 
butter  from  somewhere  last  night.  I  see  it  was 
made  in  a  hermitage  in  Brittany.  On  the  toast, 
I  had  Golden  Syrup,  a  ration  now,  and  a  good 
one,  too.  Also  a  quart  of  strong  tea,  and  now  I 
feel  all  jake  and  comfy.  A  fellow  gave  me  a 
package  of  "Old  Chum  ",  rotten  stuff,  better  than 
the  issue.  I'm  smoking  your  pipe  —  the  old  one. 
The  only  thing  wanted  to  make  the  running  perfect 
is  the  newspaper,  but  neither  Sergeant  T.  or  your 
noble  uncle  possesses  three  ha'pence  to  buy  one. 

In  a  minute  I'm  going  to  fetch  a  tin  of  water, 
put  it  on  the  stove  and  have  a  jolly  good  wash 
and  shave.  I  even  shine  my  shoes  on  this  job. 
Before  I  go  to  work  at  one,  I  shall  try  a  captured 
Spanish  onion  in  a  mess  tin  of  bacon  fat,  a  present 
from  a  friendly  cook,  also  some  slices  of  real  ham 


164       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER    V 

(not  a  present  from  any  one),  have  another  quart 
of  strong  tea,  and  a  piece  of  cake  which  a  fellow 
got  from  home  and  gave  me  last  night.  Tonight 
at  seven,  I  shall  have  a  full  course  dinner  at  the 
Officers'  mess  at  eleven  o'clock.  B.  will  have  the 
bed  down  and  a  good  fire  left. 

But  remember ;  tomorrow,  or  the  next  day,  or 
the  next,  my  home  may  be  a  ditch,  with  a  nasty 
German  looking  for  my  goat  in  another  ditch  only 
a  few  yards  away.  Sitting  here  in  lazy  comfort, 
it's  almost  impossible  —  that  war  is  all  round  and 
up  in  the  air.  If  I  were  to  walk  out  of  this  door 
far  as  from  77  to  Central  Station,  then  back,  and 
repeat  the  distance  —  I'd  be  in  Fritzie's  line. 

Yet  here  I  am  in  absolute  comfort,  with  voices 
of  women  and  kids  on  all  sides. 

No,  I  wasn't  on  the  draft  —  I  thought  that  I 
wouldn't  be  (I'm  too  valuable  a  man  to  send  up). 

Today  there  may  be  a  letter.  Always  that's 
the  main  thought  of  the  day.  And  when  that 
day's  gone,  I  always  say,  —  "Well,  there's  to- 
morrow soon  here." 

Right  after  Easter  Sunday,  1917. 
My  darling  Lai :  — 

I  was  in  the  big  scrap,  right  from  the  beginning. 

Am  writing  this  in  an  underground  cave.  I 
have  no  paper  or  anything.  This  should  be  the 
greatest  letter  I  ever  wrote  you.  .  .  . 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  165 

I  never  got  a  scratch,  though  you  can  bet  I  had 
some  near  shaves.  Holy  Gee !  and  my  first  ex- 
perience under  shell  fire,  too  !  I  was  plumb  scared 
to  death.  I've  got  to  admit  it ;  but  I  think  only 
I  knew  it.  Long  before  you  get  this,  of  course 
you  will  hear  the  story  of  our  advance.  I  told  you 
it  was  coming  quick ;  didn't  I  ? 

Up  to  tonight,  our  division  has  two  thousand 
prisoners,  and  they  are  still  coming  in.  We  have 
no  news ;  we  only  know  what  is  happening  in  our 
brigade. 

The  shelling  is  —  well  —  I  dunno'  —  there  isn't 
a  word.  .  .  . 

I  was  ahead  of  the  tanks. 

They  were  no  use  —  too  slow. 

The  arrangements  went  off  without  a  hitch; 
the  barrage  was  exact  and  splendid.  I  never  saw 
one  Fritz  plane  all  day. 

I  saw  more  of  the  battle  than  any  other  Cana- 
dian. I  was  detailed  to  carry  films  and  plates  for 
the  moving  picture  man ! 

I  volunteered  for  it  —  grabbed  it  awful  quick, 
when  I  heard  of  it.  I  was  ahead  of  the  29th,  and 
we  took  a  film  of  'em,  going  in. 

Remember,  every  Canadian  and  English  picture 
you  see  of  the  battle,  your  Hub  passed  the  plate, 
and  stood  there. 

There's  a  lot  of  'em,  so  look  out.  Try  to  see 
the  Canadian  Records  pictures. 

I  am  awful  well  —  but  worn  out. 


166       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Our  casualties  have  been  light.  The  artillery 
did  the  trick.  Every  object  was  taken  at  the 
exact  second  as  arranged  —  wonderful ! 

The  Germans  were  a  very  fine  lot  indeed,  clean 
and  smart-looking;  they  were  absolutely  out- 
classed. 

The  photograph  chap,  a  Captain,  is  absolutely 
fearless,  and  stood  on  "the  top"  to  take  pictures. 
I  didn't  let  him  beat  me ;  I  went  where  he  went  — 
but  I  dunno'  how  I  got  away  with  it. 

Some  of  the  pictures  are  to  appear  in  the  Daily 
Mirror. 

I  have  lost  all  my  kit  —  my  razor  —  every- 
thing.    Send  me  an  Ever-ready  Safety,  please. 

If  only  I  could  have  got  away  with  the  souvenirs, 
I'm  sure  I'd  be  a  rich  man.  The  only  thing  I 
grabbed  was  a  Fritz  water  bottle,  as  I  was  thirsty. 

I  had  lunch  in  his  third  line  trench  on  him : 
sour  brown  bread,  two  kinds  of  sausage  —  awful 
stuff !  Cheese,  two  bottles  of  wine,  and  all  kinds 
of  cigars  and  cigarettes. 

Our  guns  have  advanced  up  in  the  open  now. 

I  saw  the  cavalry  go  in. 

You  forget  all  about  the  machine  guns  and 
rifles;  it's  the  shells.  The  noise  is  so  great  you 
don't  hear  Fritz's  till  it's  on  you.  If  you  flop  in 
time,  you're  alright;  but  the  air  is  full  of  flying 
metal  all  the  time. 

We  captured  a  big  general. 

One  battalion  captured  a  field  hospital  complete. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  167 

It  was  the  biggest  day  of  my  life.  I  can't  quite 
understand  how  it's  possible  to  live  through  a  day 
like  that ;  but  the  casualties  were  really  very  light 
indeed.  I  am,  for  tonight,  in  a  big  underground 
cave  with  passages  hundreds  of  yards  long.  I 
haven't  shaved  or  washed  for  four  days  now.  You 
are  so  doped  with  weariness  and  excitement  that 
you  don't  worry  about  such  discomforts.  I  have 
no  idea  what  I  am  going  to  do,  even  tomorrow. 

I  don't  know  if  the  Canadians  are  going  to  be 
relieved,  or  not ;  or  how  far  the  advance  has  gone, 
or  anything.  You  see,  each  brigade  went  over  the 
top  of  the  other;  we  hear  the  Imperials  may  go 
over  the  top  of  us. 

Fritz  still  shells  us  all  day.  One  dropped  within 
thirty  feet  of  me  this  afternoon,  and  I  hadn't  time 
to  drop ;  but  was  never  touched. 

I  think  of  you  all  the  time,  dearie,  all  the  time. 

I  am  as  cheerful  as  I  can  be,  and  hoping  for 
the  best. 

Don't  worry,  dear  —  please. 

I  am  to  be  stretcher  bearer  with  "B"  Company 
of  my  battalion. 

I  met  one  of  my  pals  being  carried  out  by  two 
Heinies  —  a  lovely  Blighty  he  had,  through  the 
flesh  of  the  thigh.     Lucky  devil ! 

All  the  Fritz  prisoners  are  nothing  but  stretcher 
bearers. 

I  can  only  wonder  what  Canada  is  thinking; 
but  surely  she  is  proud.     It  is  a  wonderful  day. 


168       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Easter  Monday  —  everybody  so  smiling  and 
happy.  Our  battalion  repelled  a  counter  attack, 
and  ripped  'em  up. 

I  was  right  amongst  a  bunch  of  tanks,  when 
Fritz  got  a  range  on  'em  and  fairly  surrounded  'em 
with  big  shells.     Gee  !     I  was  glad  to  beat  it. 

It's  very  cold  and  snowy  —  confound  it.  Au 
9 voir,  dear. 

God  bless  you. 

I  think  —  Thursday  after  Easter  Sunday,  '17. 
My  very  dearest  Kid  :  — 

I  guess  we'll  go  in  again.  In  the  meantime 
I  am  kept  here  with  a  party  getting  ammunition 
up  from  the  cars  —  the  most  desperately  hard 
work  I've  ever  thought  of  —  and  dumping  it  out- 
side. Climbing  up  is  the  hard  part,  and  going 
overland  seventy  or  eighty  yards  to  the  guns  a 
little  risky.  Every  day  somebody  gets  killed. 
Yesterday  Fritz  wounded  three  of  his  own  men 
who  were  carrying  out  our  wounded,  and  killed 
one  of  our  fellows  this  afternoon. 

I  was  hoping  we  would  be  relieved,  too,  as  I 
haven't  washed  or  shaved  since  we  came  in. 
Water  for  tea  has  to  be  fetched  in  gasoline  cans, 
two  each,  from  down  a  trench  a  long  way,  just 
this  side  of  Nouvelle  St.  Vaast  —  or  what  is  left 
of  it.     I  am  quite  well  —  very. 

If  the  battalion  goes  in  again  in  a  day  or  so,  I 
guess  I'll  go  with  them.     They'll  need  us.     I  can't 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  169 

say  I'm  looking  forward  to  it;  but  of  course  I 
understand  what  it  means,  and  that  it  is  what  I 
am  here  for. 

I  wish  it  wasn't  so  cold.  If  only  the  people  at 
home  understand  this  war  and  what  we  boys 
suffer  —  and  never  a  holler  !  How  little  I  under- 
stood, even  up  to  a  week  ago ;  yet  I'm  glad  I'm 
here.     It  is  my  place. 

The  Fritzies  here  work  very  hard  and  uncom- 
plainingly and  willingly  with  our  wounded ;  every 
one  has  remarked  on  it. 

They  were  a  fine  appearing  body,  too,  those  op- 
posed to  us.  Of  course  nothing  could  last  under 
our  bombardment.  It  was  magnificent  —  awful. 
It  was  a  walkover  for  our  boys.  Casualties  were 
light,  very ;  but  of  course  —  in  proportion,  I 
mean  — 

If  only  we  could  get  news  !  We  know  nothing, 
only  rumours. 

Yesterday  I  was  over  the  No  Man's  Land  (of 
yesterday).  I  found  some  cans  of  Fritz's  bully 
beef  —  I  don't  like  it  much.  But  the  desolation 
—  my  God,  it's  unbelievable !  Even  old  skulls 
unearthed  by  shells  —  French  —  from  the  early 
days  of  the  war !  And  debris  of  every  conceivable 
description,  German  and  English  mixed ! 

Our  barrage  was  marvellous,  a  perfect  curtain. 
Nothing  could  live,  and  nothing  did.  The  pris- 
oners surrendered  from  deep  dugouts,  or  were 
smoked  out,  or  bombed  in. 


170       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Do  you  remember  once  telling  me  you  didn't 
believe  those  moving  pictures  were  genuine,  that 
no  one  would  risk  his  life  for  dollars  ?  I  thought 
of  that  remark  more  than  once  on  Monday  — 
with  a  grin  —  as  I  followed  Captain  C.  up  "on 
top"  to  get  a  picture,  when  down  in  a  shell  hole 
seemed  the  only  possible  place.  He  was  the  limit, 
that  man,  brave  as  a  lion.  We  got  some  splendid 
pictures,  and  of  course  you'll  see  them  —  both 
the  movies  and  the  official  Canadian  Records 
pictures.     As  I  told  you,  I'm  in  several. 

We  had  some  narrow  escapes,  of  course. 
Luckily  we  got  inside  of  Heinie's  barrage  and  were 
comparatively  safe  from  shells  of  that  kind.  (It's 
queer  how  you  forget  machine  and  rifle  bullets.) 
I  suppose  this  cave  will  be  used  for  other  purposes 
now.  One  day  I'd  like  you  to  come  to  see  it.  I 
don't  think  any  of  the  battle  fields  can  ever  be 
used  for  agricultural  purposes  or  anything  again. 
You  can't  understand.  No  one  can  but  those  here. 
Every  square  yard  contains  unexploded  bombs 
and  shells  and  munitions ;  rusty  tangled  wire  is  all 
over,  and  holes,  —  just  all  holes  —  that's  all  there 
is.  Front  line  trenches  are  no  trenches  at  all, 
really  —  only  connected  shell  holes,  half  full  of 
water. 

How  we  exist,  let  alone  "carry  on",  I  don't 
know.     Yet  you  never  hear  a  kick. 

For  my  own  part,  I  haven't  been  tried  out  yet. 
I  haven't  done  a  "trip  in",  let  alone  "go  over  the 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  171 

bags."  I  can  never  be  too  thankful,  though,  that  I 
saw  this  big  battle  as  an  eyewitness,  right  close  up, 
and  that  you  will  have  a  picture  record  of  it.  .  .  . 

Don't  know  the  day  but  sometime  in  April  — 
(ground  covered  with  snow).  We  are  in  "Battle 
order"  —  no  packs  or  blanket  or  anything. 

My  dearest  Lallie  :  — 

I  have  just  spent  the  most  gloriously  comfy 
night  possible  tucked  in  a  Heinie  Officer's  dugout 
(and  they  are  some  palaces)  and  have  just  heard 
the  joyful  news  we  are  going  "out."  Conse- 
quently I  am  just  delirious  with  high  spirits.  .  .  . 

Lai  dear,  how  I  wish  over  and  over  and  over 
again  that  I  could  tell  you  of  all  this.  You  know 
how  interested  I  am  in  "  things  ",  how  I  observe 
everything  and  immediately  want  to  tell  you  of 
it.  Yet  —  here  I  am,  with  so  much  to  say,  and 
can't,  because  there  is  so  much. 

I  have  read,  with  you,  all  the  big  descriptive 
writers'  accounts  of  the  "front  line",  yet  no  one 
has  ever  even  begun  to  show  me  it,  no  one  can 
describe  it.  You  must  see  it,  live  it,  and  live  it  as 
a  private  in  the  line.  Some  one  has  said  — 
"nothing  is  unendurable  because  all  has  been  en- 
dured." That  is  true.  I  have  worked  till  I 
thought  surely  it  was  impossible  to  continue,  yet 
continued.  I  have  lived  through  cold  nights  and 
wet  and  mud,  and  felt  certain  tomorrow  would  see 
me  all  in ;   yet  I  wasn't.     Only  one  thing  is  as  I 


172       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

thought ;  I  fear  the  wet  and  cold  worse  than  the 
shells. 

What  shall  I  tell  you  ?  You  don't  want  to  hear 
about  narrow  escapes,  and  shell  fire,  and  all  that 
stuff.     It's  too  common  — 

I'll  tell  you  of  little  things. 

The  first  night  "in"  here,  after  the  big  battle, 
we  took  up  positions  way  over  Fritzie's  tenth  or 
twelfth  line.  He  was  right  to  think  Vimy  Ridge 
untakable.  It  was.  But  a  man  can  advance 
behind  a  shell  curtain  which  does  not  leave  a 
blade  of  grass  (if  there  was  such  a  thing)  un- 
touched. The  enemy  is  bound  to  go  to  his  dug- 
outs, and  as  the  curtain  passes  over  him,  all  he 
has  to  do  is  to  come  out  and  surrender  —  those 
who  are  not  buried.  No  one  can  blame  Fritz  for 
thinking  we  couldn't  take  this  place.  Machinery 
did  it,  guns  and  mathematical  planning,  in  this 
instance  without  a  mistake. 

But  — s'nuff. 

Since  the  day  I  left  our  little  comfy  base,  I 
haven't  had  a  day  from  the  Zone  unless  a  dugout 
is  "out  of  it."  Fritz  isn't  bothering  us  such  an 
awful  lot;  but  he's  trying  to  get  the  advanced 
batteries  and  searching  his  old  lines  and  roads  all 
the  time.  Of  course  he  knows  the  exact  positions, 
and  it's  trying. 

The  first  night  "in",  I  honestly  nearly  died  with 
cold.  Next  day  I  was  wandering  around  and 
found  a  practically  untouched   officers'   dugout. 


^N  THE  TRENCHES  173 

It's  the  limit^Ql  boarded  up,  with  a  sitting-room, 
and  swell  bunks  with  shavings  for  a  mattress.  I 
told  others,  and  a  pal  of  mine,  young  V.  R. ;  and 
we  moved  in.  It's  heavenly.  The  door  faces  the 
wrong  way ;  but  only  a  direct  hit  in  the  entrance 
could  get  us,  and  there  are  two  entrances,  so  we 
could  hardly  get  buried.  R.  and  I  with  our  two 
overcoats  slept  most  absurdly  comfortable;  ra- 
tions came  up,  even  bread,  and  a  letter  from  you, 
so  we  haven't  a  complaint  —  particularly  now  as 
we  hear  we  are  going  out  tonight  for  a  few  days' 
rest. 

Water  is  the  only  difficulty,  as  we  have  to  get  it 
out  of  shell  holes. 

Yesterday  I  came  upon  some  typewritten  orders 

of  Heinies,  and  handed  them  in but  I  don't 

expect  a  V.C. 

From  this  Ridge  or  series  of  Ridges,  we  have  a 
wonderful  view  :  a  plain  for  miles  dotted  with  un- 
touched villages  in  the  distance.  On  my  right 
and  left  are  the  batteries  —  one  an  eight-inch  of 
Fritz's  own  guns  captured  complete  with  ammuni- 
tion dumps.  These  have  been  turned  round  and 
are  pasting  him  night  and  day.  It  seems  amaz- 
ing that  one  can  sit  in  safety  fifty  yards  away, 
hear  his  shells  coming  and  watch  them  burst 
round  these  batteries,  knowing  there  is  no  need 
to  worry  —  it's  not  you  he's  firing  at.  .  .  . 
:  Did  I  tell  you  I  actually  found  a  Y.M.C.A.  in 
a  dugout  in  the  very  run  of  the  advance.     It's  the 


174       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

limit.     Of  course  it  was  in  a  safe  place,  but  just 
the  same,  it  was  well  up.  .  .  . 

Do  you  know  I  wasn't  half  so  scared,  that  day 
(taking  the  pictures),  as  I  was  the  day  they  put 
me  on  building  the  road  over  which  they  got  guns 
into  and  down  the  Ridge.  That  was  the  devil 
of  a  job.  The  road  runs  down  the  side  of  the 
Ridge  into  the  town  and  the  valley  below.  Fritz 
hadn't  had  time  to  destroy  it ;  but  our  own  shells 
broke  it  up  a  lot  while  the  boys  advanced.  Some 
three  or  four  thousand  men  were  put  on  the  job  of 
fixing  it  up  —  in  direct  view  of  Fritz.  As  they 
explained ;  the  "guns  must  be  gotten  there."  The 
holes  were  filled  with  anything  at  all.  Old  Fritz 
had  had  an  engineers'  yard  down  below,  and  threw 
all  his  material  into  the  shell  holes  any  how.  Even 
as  we  worked,  the  guns  staggered  through  some- 
how ;  the  road  was  littered  with  dead  men  — 
dead  Heinies  left  behind  —  and  men  killed  as  we 
worked.  No  one  moved  them;  there  was  no 
time.  In  the  side  or  bank  of  the  Ridge  were  his 
old  dugouts.  Every  now  and  then  we  dived  for 
these ;  but  you  couldn't  remain  only  a  moment  — 
the  "guns  had  to  be  gotten  through."  I  was 
carrying  a  long  pole  with  another  fellow;  right 
in  front  were  four  men  with  a  big  beam.  A  shell 
killed  three  of  the  men  in  front,  and  blew  us  two 
flat,  pole  and  all.  I  sure  thought  we'd  got  it.  We 
dived  for  a  dugout,  falling  over  a  dead  Heinie  in 
the  doorway  —  it  was  his  late  dressing  station  — 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  175 

now  ours  —  and  there  was  an  M.O.  calmly  work- 
ing on  wounded  as  if  he  was  in  his  surgery  at 
home.  Isn't  it  hell  that  the  fellows  who  really 
do  the  work  won't  ever  get  the  credit.  One  doctor 
sits  safely  at  the  base,  another  works  right  up; 
and  no  one  at  home  knows  the  difference.  How- 
ever, we  went  back  at  last,  and  believe  me  I  was 
tickled.  I  spent  that  night  in  a  shell  hole,  and 
next  day  we  went  to  the  rear  again. 

No  one  knows  where  we  are  going,  or  any- 
thing. 

April,  Morning  of  the  22nd,  "Out." 

My  dearest  Kiddie :  — 

As  soon  as  ever  you  see  this  paper  you'll  say  all 
is  K.O.  and  not  only  we  are  out  safely,  but  I  have 
got  your  parcels  as  well.  Certainly  nothing  could 
possibly  have  been  more  cheery  and  ripping  al- 
together than  to  have  got  them  when  I  did.  It 
was  a  direct  hand-clasp  from  you,  and  I  needed  it, 
as  you  will  guess.  I  was  about  all  in  physically, 
and  getting  to  be  something  of  a  nervous  wreck, 
too.  But  Oh !  dearie,  you  cannot  realize  the 
wonderful  change  in  everything  now.  Everyone 
positively  radiates  good  fellowship.  Already  I 
have  friends  and  am  with  a  good  clique.  But 
even  so,  happiness  —  lazy,  good-natured,  care- 
free happiness  —  seems  to  have  electrified  the  air. 
The  sun  shines.  We  have  mail  from  home,  hot 
tea,  two  blankets,  newspaper  —  and  up  to  last 


176       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

night  we  had  nothing.  I  don't  want  to  sound 
melodramatic,  but  you  know  death  is  in  the  air 
and  all  round,  and  though  no  one  mentions  it, 
even  when  some  one  suddenly  goes  West,  it's  with 
us  alright.  I  know  it  is  with  me.  Fritz  gave  us 
hell  yesterday  afternoon,  and  fairly  sprayed  our 
parapet  and  parados  with  shells.  Our  company, 
we  now  know,  suffered  most.  At  dusk,  all  were 
actively  preparing  for  the  relief,  and  wondering 
just  whether  Fritz  would  happen  to  choose  the 
identical  moment  for  a  strafe.  The  relief  was  a 
trifle  late,  and  the  waiting,  to  us,  trying.  It  was 
my  first  experience.  Eventually  the  relieving 
platoon  from  the  particular  Battn.  arrived,  and 
came  in  the  trench,  and  away  we  went  across  the 
dark  plain  in  single  file.  —  I  say  dark.  It  was 
never  dark.  Fritzie's  flares  are  up,  all  the  time. 
We  got  well  away  the  first  two  miles,  and  then 
seemed  to  fairly  walk  into  bursting  shells.  We 
made  a  tremendous  pace,  but  somehow  could  not 
seem  to  get  away  from  the  screaming  rush  and 
Rrrr  —  up,  as  they  burst  around.  However, 
eventually  we  did  get  away,  and  at  dawn  pulled 
into  our  rest  camp,  a  new  city  of  tents,  'way  in 
advance  of  our  last  resting  place.  The  cook 
wagons  had  hot  tea  and  bacon  and  bread  and 
"mush"  and  jam,  and  we  just  flopped,  and  ate, 
and  felt  good-natured.  Our  bunch  are  not  in 
tents,  but  under  spread  tarpaulins.  It's  alright 
—  everything's    alright.     Later,     we    got     two 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  177 

blankets  and  Cpl.  R.  K.  and  I  doubled  up  and 
slept.  Later,  I  borrowed  a  Gillette  and  shaved 
and  washed  in  a  shell  hole  half  full  of  water ;  then 
we  bought  canned  fruit  and  biscuits,  and  just  lay 
around.  Then  we  got  mail  —  as  I  told  you  — 
and  the  world  is  good.  Somewhere  even,  the 
Battn.  band  is  playing,  aeroplanes  are  aloft,  our 
biggest  heavies  bark  away;  but  Fritz  doesn't 
send  any  over. 

There  is  a  fly  in  the  amber  —  a  big  'un.  We 
go  back  in  the  line  as  supports  to  the  attacks  — 
they  say  tomorrow  night;  and  we  had  counted 
on  six  days.  Let's  hope  supports  are  well  back 
and  won't  be  needed.  It  seems  to  me  there  must 
be  a  divisional  rest  soon.  The  men  are  not  at 
their  best  —  it's  a  fact. 

But  of  course  the  aspect  of  the  war  has  changed 
now.  It's  of  no  use  getting  Heinie  on  the  run,  if 
we  don't  keep  him  there;  is  it?  There  are  even 
rumors  Fritz  is  beating  it  further  back. 

Don't  worry  about  me.  Think,  as  I  try  so  hard 
to  do,  "it  is  written."  Not  many  get  killed  out- 
right, and  by  far  the  most  get  nice  soft  Blighty s. 
Maybe  I  may  be  one  of  these.  .  .  . 

Remember  this  is  the  only  place  for  a  Britisher 
who  is  fit  and  well.  That  thought  should  be  with 
you  always. 

You  are  always  with  me  here,  wishing  me  luck, 
and  helping  me  to  fight  it  out  — 

God  bless  you,  Lai ! 


178       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

3  p.m.,  26  April,  '17. 
My  dearest  Lallie :  — 

Our  rest  has  now  come  to  an  end  and  I'm  writ- 
ing this  while  we  are  packing  up.  At  six  p.m.  we 
beat  it  for  the  "transhays"  once  again. 

There  is  a  nice  little  rumour  going  around  that 
we  are  only  going  into  supports  and  this  is  borne 
out  by  the  order  to  take  our  packs  with  us,  not 
battle  order  as  previously,  so  I  have  sneaked  a 
blanket,  and  folded  it  inside  my  stretcher.  I 
hope  that's  as  far  as  we  are  going.  Well,  I  hope 
I  can  jump  that  same  Fritz  dugout  we  were  in 
before.  I'll  make  an  awful  bee-line  for  it,  you 
can  bet  on  that. 

It's  very  cold  today,  again.  I  wish  the  dickens 
we  could  have  stayed  a  while  longer  under  our 
"Bivy."  Unfortunately,  they  didn't  pay  us  this 
time  out,  so  we  can't  tote  any  "eats"  in  with  us. 
I  have  still  some  candles  left,  though,  so  we  can 
warm  up  "mulligan",  which  is  something. 

Personally  I  have  an  awful  hunch  we  shall  ditch 
our  packs  in  a  couple  of  days  and  go  through  the 
old  performance  again  of  the  last  trip  —  reserves 
—  supports — and  front  lines.  .  .  . 

Next  Day. 

My  dear,  I  wish  I  could  transport  you  over  here 
for  just  one  hour  ('tween  shellings),  —  so  you 
could  see  how  things  are,  —  and  then  again  I 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  179 

wouldn't.  The  sights  are  interesting  beyond 
anything  in  the  world,  I  suppose  —  yet  —  they 
are  awful,  too.  Last  evening  in  very  lovely 
weather,  we  pulled  out,  leaving  our  comfy  camp 
behind.  Our  new  place  —  supports,  or  reserves, 
I  don't  know  which  —  is  on  the  old  dead  line  of 
only  the  other  day.  This  life  don't  seem  to  allow 
one  to  soliloquize  or  see  things  in  retrospect ;  but 
every  now  and  then  there's  something  hits  you, 
and  you  forget  your  immediate  troubles  and  see  it 
from  the  outsider's  point  of  view.  Today  as  I 
looked  around,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  I  stood 
on  historical  ground.  For  two  and  a  third  years, 
the  lines  have  never  moved.  France  lost  thirty 
thousand  men  on  this  very  spot.  England  tried 
to  take  it  and  failed.  And  now  Canada  walks 
over  it  and  digs  about  in  it,  uses  old  French  rifles, 
torn  up  out  of  the  ground  by  shell  fire,  for  its  dug- 
out supports,  and  machine-gun  shields  as  roofs. 
One  day  you  must  walk  over  the  trail  from  Neuvelle 
St.  Vaast  to  Vimy  and  remember  —  indeed  it 
would  be  impossible  to  forget  —  that  here  Canada 
made  herself  ace  high  with  France. 

The  scene  is  the  most  depressingly  desolate  it 
would  be  possible  to  imagine.  The  ground  has 
only  a  few  inches  of  loam  over  the  chalk.  It  is 
honeycombed  with  trenches  and  tunnels,  and  — 
this  is  not  an  exaggeration  —  on  the  front  four 
miles  deep,  (I  dunno'  how  long)  you  couldn't  find 
one  shell  hole  six  feet  from  another.     The  con- 


180       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

sequence  is  that,  in  colour,  it's  a  sort  of  dirty  pale 
grey ;  not  a  blade  of  grass  or  growing  thing  any- 
where. The  ground  is  littered  with  rotting  French 
packs  and  equipment  and  German  ditto  and  the 
more  recent  stuff  of  ours.  It  is  a  graveyard.  Big 
shells  have  uprooted  parts  of  bodies  everywhere, 
and  human  bones  lie  dirty  white  in  the  open.  Old- 
fashioned  munitions  unexploded  lie  side  by  side 
with  the  new,  half -buried  in  the  drying  mud ;  the 
trenches  are  all  broken  in,  gun  emplacements  — 
observing  posts  —  sticking  up  in  fantastic  shapes, 
twisted  iron  —  rusty  barbed  wire,  rotting  wire 
and  splintered  wood,  add  to  the  desolation.  Tin 
cans  with  labels  printed  in  French  and  English 
and  German  are  everywhere;  here  and  there  a 
huge  mound  of  white  chalk  in  irregular  shapes. 
These  figured  in  the  official  communiques  of  over 
two  years  as  "we  exploded  a  mine  in  the  Neuvelle- 
St.  Vaast  sector  and  occupied  the  crater."  German 
and  English  both  said  this;  in  both  cases  it  was 
true,  as  each  lip  was  held  by  one  side,  it  being 
necessary  for  the  holders  to  cover  their  helmets 
with  wet  cloth  and  quietly  peep  over  the  top  to 
snipe  each  other  at  forty  —  thirty  —  fifty  yards 
range.  My  friend  took  me  over  the  ground  today, 
and  showed  me  the  different  trenches  they  held 
last  winter.  Fritz  was  averagely  thirty  yards 
away;  it  seemed  unbelievable  that  it  could  all 
have  been  so.  It  is  beyond  words  to  describe. 
Today  we  walk  on  the  top,  and  light  fires,  and  live 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  181 

in  safety;  yesterday,  to  look  over  the  parapet 
was  instant  death.  Here,  too,  I  came  out  of  a 
cave  in  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth,  where  the 
guns  only  sounded  like  very  distant  thunder  and 
walked  about  in  a  hell  of  sound,  watched  and 
helped  take  pictures  of  the  boys  going  over  and 
taking  these  very  trenches,  and  saw  the  big  battle 
won  on  the  memorable  April  9th,  1917. 

France  had  big  feelings  about  Vimy.  Today 
Canada  is  getting  the  glad  hand  from  her.  I  have 
heard  of  people,  French  people,  stopping  to  shake 
hands  with  boys  wearing  the  maple  leaf  down  at 
the  base  —  an  unusual  thing,  as  the  French  are 
most  taciturn,  not  excitable  as  we  have  been  led 
to  believe.     Not  now,  anyhow. 

One  soon  learns  to  be  resourceful  and  quick  up 
here.  Last  night  we  arrived,  piled  arms,  and 
"dig  yourselves  in  where  you  can,  boys"  in  an 
hour.  K.  and  I  had  selected  a  corner  in  a  broken 
trench  sheltered  from  the  wind,  tore  sandbags 
from  dismantled  parapets,  walled  it  in,  put  the 
stretcher  and  the  rubber  sheet  over  the  top  of  the 
roof,  laid  another  sheet  on  the  ground  inside,  got 
a  blanket  and  our  coats  spread  out,  our  kits  for  a 
pillow,  a  candle  (one  of  yours)  lighted  and  stuck  on 
a  stick,  pushed  between  two  sandbags  at  the  head 
end.  Our  entrenching  tools  transformed  a  gaso- 
line can  into  a  brazier  —  wood  is  everywhere  — 
quickly  a  good  fire  was  blazing  at  the  open  front 
end,  a  mess  tin  of  water  boiled  quickly  and  four 


182       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

cubes  of  your  Oxo  made  us  a  good-night  hot  drink. 
We  slept  perfectly.  Fritz  threw  over  a  few  shells 
—  apparently  out  of  spite  —  but  they  were 
"tired"  ones  when  they  arrived,  and  didn't  dis- 
turb us,  nor  the  rats  which  were  numerous.  Early 
this  morning,  off  came  the  temporary  roof,  a  few 
hundred  yards  wide  of  scouting  around,  and  we 
had  a  sheet  of  shell-torn  corrugated  iron,  some 
broken  trench  mats,  some  netting  wire  for  a  per- 
manent roof,  the  wall  reinforced  with  more  sand- 
bags, another  rubber  sheet  —  no  doubt  belonging 
once  to  some  casualty  —  for  a  door,  and  now  we 
have  a  home  to  be  proud  of,  where  I  am  sitting 
writing  to  you.  We  put  a  row  of  sandbags  on  the 
top  to  make  it  solid  and  plugged  the  holes  with 
mud.  It  isn't  bomb  proof;  but  only  a  direct  hit 
can  get  us,  and  shelling  is  only  most  desultory,  so 
we  are  safe  as  at  home.  Some  of  the  boys  have 
built  most  palatial  places  with  lumps  of  chalk, 
regular  huts.  Fires  are  going  everywhere;  no 
one  seems  to  give  a  damn  about  Fritz  observing 
anything.  In  fact,  all  through  I  notice  a  growing 
contempt  of  him;  it  is  taken  for  granted  he  is 
beaten  and  knows  it. 

The  opinion  is  growing  everywhere  that  Fritz 
cannot  hold  out.  I  wish  I  dare  believe  it.  The 
guns  are  at  him  all  the  time;  sometimes  for  an 
hour  or  more  they  all  open  up  together.  It  is 
like  a  million  big  drums  in  the  distance,  punctuated 
by  the  leisurely  whistling  —  sort  of  sobbing  — 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  183 

passage  overhead  of  the  very  big  fellows  behind. 
The  field  guns  are  all  away  up ;  nothing  can  live 
where  our  artillery  is  —  nor  our  organization. 
Only  a  few  days  ago,  this  was  No-Man's-Land ; 
across  here  now  are  a  dozen  roads,  long  never- 
ending  lines  of  transports  and  pack  mules  —  one 
road  for  "in",  another  for  "out."  Railway  tracks 
have  already  been  laid  right  up  to  the  Ridge  and 
over.  One  appears  to  have  a  number  of  gasoline 
tractors  on  it,  small  powerful  engines ;  another  has 
big  dinkies  puffing  away  day  and  night.  These 
lines  of  supplies  are  endless.  Last  night  I  noticed 
a  pack  mule  train  where  you  couldn't  see  the  end 
nor  the  beginning,  and  it's  level  ground  for  miles. 

I  have  understood  that  in  the  trenches  on  our 
right,  the  Germans  made  nine  counter  attacks  in 
the  last  two  days,  and  not  one  reached  our  line. 
The  artillery  cut  'em  up,  and  the  ground  in  front 
is  a  mass  of  dead. 

I  just  decided  to  have  a  wash,  so  found  a  shell 
hole  with  some  water  in  it  and  an  old  steel  helmet, 
stuck  it  on  our  stove  and  had  a  beauty,  with  Pears 
soap  and  a  clean  white  towel. 

When  I  had  finished,  I  got  a  hurry  call : 
"Stretcher-bearer!"  A  sergeant  of  our  company 
had  driven  a  pick  into  a  buried  smoke  bomb,  and 
it  burst  in  his  face.  It  was  very  bad  —  very 
bad  indeed.  I  could  only  bind  it  with  a  shell 
dressing  to  keep  the  air  out  till  he  reaches  the 
dressing    station.     It's   a   Blighty    one    alright, 


184       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

For  twenty  years  to  come,  there'll  be  accidents 
of  that  kind  happen  all  over  the  front  line  in 
France. 

There  were  one  or  two  "sticky-out"  things  I 
intended  to  tell  you  at  various  times.  I'll  try 
to  think  of  them  now.  One  was :  Heinie  has  a 
new  shell.  When  it  bursts,  out  pops  a  terrifically 
brilliant  arc  light  which  hangs  in  the  air  far  too 
long.  The  country  is  made  as  bright  as  day. 
Imagine  the  feelings  of  a  bunch  of  men  working, 
or  marching  in  the  open  at  night,  and  one  of  those 
damn  things  busting  near !  They  flop,  I  guess, 
tout  suite.  We  had  one  bust  over  us,  but  we  were 
in  the  trench  and  so  safe.  It's  a  good  one  —  and 
I  fear,  if  only  his  observation  is  good,  it  will  be  a 
bother  to  us.  Like  every  one  else,  you  have  heard 
of  Fritz's  gas  shells.  I  was  under  the  impression 
they  were  a  fearsome  thing.  The  other  night, 
coming  out,  I  noticed  shells  coming  over  and 
hitting  the  ground  with  a  dull  "flop."  Soon  I 
noticed  a  queer  smell  like  —  as  much  as  any- 
thing —  fresh  green  tree  bark  —  laburnum  trees. 
I  said  "What  the  devil's  the  smell?"  "Gas 
shells,"  some  one  says.  Try  to  imagine  us  grop- 
ing along  in  the  dark  in  single  file,  tearing  along 
all  we  knew,  to  get  away  from  the  zone  of  shells. 
Right  and  left,  every  minute,  a  big  "Ker-up",  as 
one  bust,  —  each  man  looking  only  at  the  feet  of 
the  man  in  front,  as  the  murmur  continually 
passes  down  the  line  from  man  to  man:  "Shell 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  185 

hole  on  the  left !"  —  "Wire  under-foot",  —  "More 
wire"  and  so  on,  the  only  guide  you  have,  and  me 
bringing  up  the  rear  carrying  a  stretcher  which 
sometimes  got  so  heavy  I  thought  really  I  could 
never  make  it.  And  then  the  guy  says,  "Gas 
Shells!" 

;  Without  stopping  (I  can  laugh  now),  I  lugged 
out  the  mask  of  my  "gasperator"  ready  to  put  it 
on.  However,  I  noticed  the  chap  in  front  didn't 
seem  to  be  worrying,  so  I  let  it  hang.  All  the 
time,  there  was  the  whistle  of  the  arriving  shell, 
and  the  full  flop  of  the  shells  in  the  mud  and  the 
smell  growing  stronger. 

Well,  —  that's  all. 

They're  a  joke.  Unless  one  comes  and  lands 
in  the  top  pocket  of  your  tunic,  they're  as  effec- 
tive as  lavender  water  or  eau  de  cologne. 

They  land  in  the  mud  and  give  a  little  kick  — 
an  explosion  which  draws  out  a  cork  or  something 
—  and  out  oozes  Fritz's  f rightfulness.  I  am 
waiting  to  hear  of  some  one  getting  gassed  by 
one.  K.  just  came  in  the  dugout  and  I  thought 
I'd  ask  him  if  he'd  heard  of  any  one.  He  says, 
"Yes,  at  the  Somme,  when  he  threw  some 
thousands  altogether."  So  that's  it.  I  guess 
he  hasn't  got  the  guns  here,  so  his  attempts 
are  a  joke. 

The  rations  here  are  already  getting  in  their 
fine  work  —  no  butter  —  no  jam  —  only  biscuits. 
Already  I'm  hungry  as  a  bear.  .  .  . 


186       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

If  you  ever  hit  one  of  our  camps  and  saw  the 
fellows  go  for  those  canteens,  you'd  have  a  fit. 
Our  canteen  sold  five  thousand  francs  worth  of 
stock  in  three  days,  and  no  one  had  been  paid. 
It  takes  anywhere  from  half  an  hour  up,  to  get 
into  one,  owing  to  the  line-up.  Money  outside 
your  pay  seems  essential ;  but  nearly  all  the  boys 
seem  to  have  some.  I  had  ten  francs  this  time 
out,  and  young  F.  W.,  who  had  a  hundred  franc 
check,  gave  me  eight  francs.  Down  at  the  base 
where  grub  wasn't  the  main  thing,  fifteen  francs 
every  two  weeks  was  bearable ;  but  here  —  well. 
It's  no  fun.  For  instance,  a  can  of  lobsters  costs 
four  francs  and  a  half;  cake  is  sold  in  portions 
not  less  than  two  francs'  worth ;  a  candle  is  five 
cents  (Canadian) ;  milk  one  franc  and  a  half ; 
peaches  two  francs  twenty  centimes,  and  so  on. 
You  can  see  by  this  how  far  a  poor  little  fifteen 
francs  is  going  to  go.  Next  time  out,  we'll  get 
paid;  and  we  are  already  talking  of  our  spread. 
It's  going  to  include  a  packet  of  Quaker  Oats,  this 
time,  with  canned  milk.  I  taste  it  now!  Heav- 
enly! .  .  . 

My  last  thoughts  will  be  of  you,  as  will  be  my 
waking  ones. 

It  is  you  I  am  living  for  —  you  I  am  doing  this 
work  for.  When — if — the  supreme  test  comes,  I 
shall  jump  in,  doing  it  with  you  by  my  side  every 
second  —  remember. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  1S7 

Next  Day. 
My  Very  Dearest :  — 

The  weather  is  still  most  glorious  —  sun  — 
spring  —  lovely.  You  remember  how  I  told  you 
what  a  jolly  camp  we  had  ?  Well,  Fritz  was  over 
on  his  plane  and  must  have  made  a  picture  of  it, 
as  I  am  sitting  on  our  dismantled  "bivy",  wait- 
ing to  know  where  its  new  location  has  to  be. 
Heinie  got  too  enterprising  and  commenced 
dropping  shells  amongst  the  huts,  so  we  must  beat 
it  to  a  new  home  —  only  a  mile  I  guess,  or  so,  but 
it's  a  beastly  nuisance  nevertheless.  Yesterday, 
we  had  a  parade  at  two  p.m.  The  Colonel  just 
looked  us  over  a  bit,  said  we  had  begun  to  get  the 
mud  off  anyway,  congratulated  us  very  much 
on  the  recent  splendid  victory,  etc.,  etc.,  and  told 
us  he  hoped  we  should  not  have  to  go  in  again 
immediately.     Tres  bien  ! 

This  morning  at  ten  we  fell  in  for  a  bath  parade, 
about  a  three-mile  walk.  It  was  lovely,  the  bath 
and  the  walk  too  —  and  we  got  a  clean  change, 
leaving  our  other  stuff  behind.  Officers  and  men 
just  dig  in  together;  all  the  saucy  stuff  on  their 
part  is  l  "napoo"  here.  We  had  the  pipe  band  to 
play  us  down,  too.  All  the  Battalions  have  their 
bands  here.  We  have  two  pipe  and  brass.  Life 
"out"  is  positively  blissful ! 

We  have  moved  all  our  things  over  here  now, 

1  Napoo  m  II  n'y  a  j>lu$. 


188       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

about  a  mile  away.  We  packed  our  tarpaulin 
and  pegs  and  everything  over  on  my  stretcher, 
about  an  hour's  work  —  six  of  us  —  and  w%  now 
have  a  ripping  bivy.  An  old  salvaged  rifle  holds 
up  one  end,  pegs  at  the  sides,  ends  fastened  up 
with  old  tacks.  The  nights  are  very  cold,  and 
believe  me  we  appreciate  our  little  home. 

The  boys  all  seem  to  think  the  war  is  coming 
to  an  early  close.  I  wish  I  dare  think  so.  A 
captured  officer  told  us  that  they  had  tremendous 
reserves  for  counter  attacks.  The  more  the 
counter  attacks,  the  better,  because  the  artillery 
will  attend  to  them.  But  the  main  thing  I  think 
is  to  bust  Heinie's  morale  to  such  an  extent  that 
his  men  surrender  easily.  I  see  they  credit  us 
with  thirteen  thousand  prisoners,  and  now  we 
hear  Lens  has  given  the  Imperials  six  thousand 
more.  One  can  take  these  figures  without  fear 
of  exaggeration.  Surely  no  army  can  stand  this 
kind  of  thing  for  long.  Then  the  French  are 
after  him  for  fair,  too.  No!  I  hardly  think  it 
can  go  on  much  longer.  The  points  we  captured 
were  absolute  fortresses ;  yet  we  took  them  easily. 
How  can  they  hope  to  resist  more,  without  their 
extraordinary  defensive  apparatus,  dugouts  and 
so  forth?  No  words  in  our  vocabulary  can 
describe  the  artillery  bombardments  we  put  up. 
It  isn't  like  a  bombardment  as  you  would  under- 
stand it;  it's  just  a  noise  continuous.  You've 
seen  mud,  when  it's  in  a  jelly,  sort  of  boil  and 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  189 

waggle  if  you  poke  it  with  a  pole.  Well,  I've 
seen  the  earth  sort  of  boil  like  that.  Of  course, 
nothing  can  live  in  it,  not  a  mouse.  Then  we 
have  what  the  boys  call  "flying  pigs",  a  thing 
like  a  torpedo  that  is  fired  in  the  air.  When  it 
drops,  its  own  weight  makes  it  penetrate  three 
feet  in  the  ground  —  the  depth  of  an  average 
dugout.  It  then  explodes  and  leaves  a  hole 
like  a  mine  crater.  The  Germans  protested  to 
neutrals  about  this  thing;  but  I  guess  were 
laughed  at,  as  I've  seen  'em  going  up  the  line 
in  hundreds.  The  finest  piece  of  engineering 
work  I've  seen  was  the  road  from  here  to  the 
Ridge  to  get  the  supplies  up.  The  land  from 
here  to  there  was  one  mass  of  connected  shell 
holes,  wire,  mud,  and  busted  trenches.  The 
engineers  have  made  a  road  of  rough  boards 
where  they  couldn't  do  it  without,  and  the  im- 
possible has  been  accomplished.  Heinie  has  a 
better  plane  than  ours.  To  look  at,  it's  almost 
exactly  like  our  new  one;  but  for  speed,  he  has 
it.  I've  seen  him  bring  ours  down  in  a  sheet  of 
flame,  like  a  hawk  on  a  pigeon.  Just  the  same, 
we  beat  him  in  numbers.  Often  you  can  see  twenty 
of  ours  up  at  once.  He  is  over  us  repeatedly ;  but 
only  in  ones  or  twos,  and  never  for  long. 

4  May,  '17. 

This  is  being  written  in  a  funk  hole  up  near 
the  front  line   amongst   all  the   villages   whose 


190       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

names  are  now  familiar  to  you,  where  Fritz 
seems  to  be  making  a  stand,  and  a  pretty  good 
one,  too.  Yesterday  afternoon,  they  called  upon 
us  for  a  party  to  take  water  bombs,  and  machine- 
gun  ammunition  up  to  the  Battalion  that  went 
over  in  the  morning.  Of  course,  I  went  too. 
We  hadn't  been  long  on  the  way,  before  we  saw 
evidence  of  what  the  morning's  scrap  had  been 
like. 

They  made  their  objective  all  right  —  partly. 
Bombed  their  way  to  it.  Even  the  terrific 
bombardment  hadn't  broken  the  resistance,  which 
was  fierce.  I  cannot  say  any  more.  Looking 
from  the  point  of  view  of  Empire,  advancing 
against  the  might  of  an  Empire,  the  move  was 
successful.  To  our  little  unit  of  an  army  from 
Canada  —  well,  we  paid  the  price,  I  suppose. 

Saskatchewan  and  Alberta  did  it,  and  there 
are  three  new  roads  on  the  maps  of  France  which 
the  kids  will  learn  in  their  history  one  day : 
Alberta  Road,  Winnipeg  Road,  Manitoba  Road, 
—  and  another  less  important  one,  Vancouver 
Road. 

Though  we  made  our  goal  with  the  stuff  with- 
out a  casualty,  I  dunno'  how  it  happened.  Damn 
the  newspaper  jays  who  represent  us  as  "cheerful 
and  happy  as  schoolboys  going  to  a  game"  and 
all  that  slush !  We  can  do  the  work  —  will  do 
it  —  against  any  odds ;  but  we  are  not  happy  or 
cheerful.    We  are  in   deadly   earnest.    Besides, 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  191 

what  kind  of  a  human  beast  can  be  happy  and 
gay,  when  seeing  his  fellow  Canadians  being 
torn  to  pieces,  and  wracked  with  nerves ! 

We  got  back  again  without  a  casualty  —  our 
bunch  I  mean.  Other  companies  were  not  so 
lucky,  I  believe.  On  the  final  bit  of  open  before 
reaching  our  trench,  K.,  who  was  in  charge  of 
the  party,  and  myself  were  bringing  up  the  rear, 
,when  a  big  one  burst  between  us,  I  was  half 
buried,  was  sure  I'd  got  it;  but  neither  of  us 
had  a  scratch.  We  were  greeted  on  our  return 
with  the  news  I  half  anticipated.  We  were  to 
go  back  at  midnight,  to  reinforce  the  other 
Batt'ns.,  who  were  going  over  once  more  to 
consolidate.  Well,  we  made  it.  Only,  once  again 
the  Sgt.  and  I  got  blown  flat.  He  says  I'm  sure 
one  lucky  guy,  and  I  guess  I  am.  May  it  last! 
I  have  a  funk  hole  which  I  can  just  squeeze  into. 
This  afternoon  I  enlarged  it  a  little,  as  two  fellows 
in  the  next  platoon,  who  were  sitting  in  theirs 
with  their  legs  stuck  out  on  the  trench  bottoms, 
had  their  four  legs  taken  off  above  the  knee.  One 
man  was  blown  right  on  top  of  the  parapet.  We 
got  'em  out;  but  I  think  there  is  little  hope. 
Fritz  is  certainly  pounding  us,  and  he  has  the 
range  to  a  hair. 

This  is  a  great  war,  to  read  about;  but  when 
you  hear  of  these  glorious  charges,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  newspaper  gush,  remember  it  sounds 
alright.     It  no  doubt  is  alright.     We  are  winning, 


192       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

not  a  doubt  of  it ;  but  from  the  individual  point 
of  view  gained  on  the  spot,  it's  exactly  what 
Sherman  said  it  was.     And  then  some. 

It's  about  seven  now,  and  we  shall  go  for  the 
rations  when  it  gets  dark  —  ('Tis  the  Lord  knows 
what  difference  it  makes  whether  it's  dark  or 
light;  Fritz  has  his  ranges  all  set.  It's  pie  for 
him,  all  on  his  old  ground,  and  he  throws  more 
over  at  night  than  he  does  in  the  daytime.) 

The  next  letter  will  be  written  in  happy  cir- 
cumstances —  and  all  will  look  rosy  and  happy. 

Keep  cheery  and  bright.  All  is  well  as  can  be. 
Kiss  little  Bill  for  me. 

Lots  of  really  ones  for  you,  and  all  my  love. 

9  May,  '17. 

Dear  Lai :  — 

Well  —  we're  out.  I  don't  know  how  much 
you  know  over  there  about  the  recent  fighting. 
I  mean  of  this  last  week.  I  have  a  hunch,  too, 
that  letters  from  here  are  going  to  be  pretty 
closely  censored  for  a  week  or  two,  so  I'll  be  care- 
ful, as  I  want  you  to  get  this. 

We  arrived  out  yesterday  at  daybreak.  This 
morning  I  had  my  first  wash  and  shave,  and 
though  feeling  horribly  "dopey",  I'm  much  better 
than  I  was.  We've  had  a  "strenuous"  trip,  very 
strenuous.  Some  of  the  old  timers  say  it  has  had 
the  worst  of  the  Somme  beat.     All  admit  it  was 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  193 

as  bad.  Some  one  is  looking  after  me  alright. 
Never  a  scratch.  I  cannot  believe  it,  and  there  is 
no  doubt  whatever  that  at  least  on  one  occasion 
I  was  in  the  very  hottest  corner  of  all.  It  hap- 
pened K.  fell  sick  —  fortunately  I  carry  a  ther- 
mometer —  his  temperature  was  over  103,  so  I 
could  get  him  out.  The  ass  didn't  want  to  go. 
I  helped  him  pack  up  his  things,  and  right  in  the 
middle  Fritz  opened  up.  I  suppose  it  couldn't 
have  been  worse.  Personally,  I  was  convinced 
this  was  finis.  K.,  of  course,  couldn't  get  out, 
but  hunched  back  in  his  funk  hole  with  the  rest, 
and  waited.  I  stayed  in  when  I  could ;  but  of 
course  I  was  out  a  little  "on  business"  up  the 
trench.  The  air  was  quite  black;  your  mouth 
was  full  of  smoke.  When  it  quieted  down,  K.  got 
out.  And  took  my  letter.  Next  day  was  not 
so  bad;  but  at  dusk  of  course  it  started  again. 
Our  bunch  were  to  go  up  on  a  party  to  dig  a  new 
front-line  trench  —  our  two  sergeants  were  getting 
the  turn  together  —  when  a  big  one  fell  almost  on 
top  of  them.  I  think  I've  mentioned  Mike  to 
you.  I  doubt  if  we  could  have  had  a  better  ser- 
geant. He  was  a  real  friend  to  me,  a  stranger  in 
the  Company;  helped  me  in  every  way.  Every 
one  liked  Mike.  It  happened  about  twelve  feet 
from  me.  He  was  walking  along  the  trench,  had 
just  passed  my  funk  hole  with  the  other  sergeant, 
when  the  shell  came.  I  felt  it  must  have  got 
them.     I  went  out.     Only  S.  was  alive;  he  was 


194       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

terribly  hit.  Another  stretcher  bearer  and  I  did 
what  we  could.  I  didn't  see  anything  of  Mike. 
There  wasn't  enough  of  him,  I  heard  afterwards,  to 
see.  We  got  S.  on  a  stretcher,  and  I  helped  get 
him  out ;  but  he  died  before  we  got  anywhere. 

All  the  time,  we  kept  hearing  we  were  to  be  re- 
lieved; but  always  they  told  us  "tomorrow." 
One  night,  I  was  in  the  front  line  to  continue  it 
another  hundred  yards ;  that  was  a  cinch.  All 
we  had  to  contend  with  were  snipers.  We  didn't 
have  a  casualty.  Next  day,  Fritz  slowly  moved 
up  and  down  over  it  in  a  plane.  Whenever  there 
was  a  bunch  of  men  hunched  rather  close  together, 
he  dropped  a  flare.  The  same  second  over  came 
a  shell,  and  —  no  trench  —  no  men.  I  was  in 
the  trench  the  next  night,  beyond  it  to  our  other 
Company  to  get  out  wounded.  All  the  way,  we 
climbed  over  dead  bodies. 

The  salient  is  like  a  horseshoe.  The  heavies 
come  from  in  front,  the  light  from  near-by  be- 
hind. The  trenches  are  not  trenches,  only  two 
feet  or  so  wide  and  about  four  feet  deep.  Fritz 
has  every  inch  marked.  These  poor  men  — 
Why  should  it  be  them  that  line  the  trenches? 
I  leave  you  to  imagine  what  it's  like,  getting  a 
wounded  man  out.  The  stretcher  is  wider  than 
the  trench.  One  night,  we  got  on  top  to  carry; 
we  stayed  about  a  minute.  The  first  flare  to 
come  over,  and  he  got  after  us  with  both  whizz 
bangs  and  heavies.    Right  there  is  where  a  miracle 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  195 

occurred.  A  shell  dropped  amongst  us,  and  — 
even  now  I  don't  understand  it  -^-  it  never  went 
off.  Not  one  shell  in  a  thousand  does  that  now. 
Well,  we  got  out.  Our  stretcher  cases  were  alive, 
and  our  "walkers"  too.  Going  down  the  main 
trench,  he  shelled  us  all  the  way.  It  was  the 
night  of  the  relief,  and  we  passed  them  coming  up. 
Imagine  that,  too,  if  you  can.  The  men  hurry- 
ing, cursing,  with  sobbing  breath,  coming  up; 
and  we  trying  to  get  down  with  our  stretchers. 
Telephone  wires  across  the  trench  everywhere. 
I  dunno'  how  it's  done;  but  it  is.  When  we  got 
to  our  own  part  of  the  trench,  another  party  took 
the  cases  and  went  on  out.  Our  relief  came  about 
the  same  time.  Our  troubles  weren't  over  yet, 
though.  Fritz,  of  course,  was  wise  to  the  relief, 
and,  going  out,  in  addition  to  ordinary  shelling, 
put  up  a  gas  barrage  (shells)  away  back.  This  we 
had  to  pass  through.  He  threw  a  fearful  lot,  and 
it  was  pretty  bad.  However,  we  got  through  that, 
too.  And,  like  a  lot  of  drunken  men,  arrived  at 
the  point  —  some  miles  away  —  where  our  cook 
wagons  were.  I  forgot  to  say  it  rained.  Here 
we  flopped  in  the  road,  and  ate  steaks  and  drank 
tea  —  then  slept.  Then  came  the  really  inter- 
esting part.  We'd  been  asleep  awhile,  then  were 
waked  up  to  "stand  to."  Fritz  had  come  over  on 
those  trenches  and  taken  'em.  Now  can  you 
beat  that?  Personally,  I  couldn't  either  think 
or  move,  I  was  so  "all  in," 


196       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Those  poor  devils  who  relieved  us  (Easterners) 
to  crawl  into  those  new  trenches  over  all  those 
dead  bodies,  find  their  places,  and  in  the  rain  and 
dark,  with  Fritz  shelling  it,  and  then  for  him  to 
come  over  !  However,  in  an  hour  or  so,  we  heard 
they'd  gone  over  and  retaken  them.  If  Fritz 
couldn't  hold  that  line,  under  conditions  as  they 
are,  having  the  ranges  and  everything  —  couldn't 
hold  it  from  Battalions  feeling  as  these  fellows 
must  have  felt !  —  then  indeed  he  is  no  good, 
and  the  war  is  over,  as  regards  which  are  the  best 
men. 

Our  machine  gunners  were  the  last  to  leave. 
They  stayed  to  hold  the  line  while  the  new  bunch 
got  all  fixed  in  their  places,  so  they  were  there 
when  he  came  over.  Our  platoon  gunner,  it  is 
claimed,  held  up  the  whole  entrance.  He  claims 
fifty  Fritzies,  and  he's  no  hot-air  artist.  He  stayed 
till  his  gun  was  knocked  out.     It's  a  medal,  sure. 

The  boys  are  not  happy  or  jolly  this  trip  out. 
There  are  rumours  we  must  go  in  again  before  a 
rest.  God  knows  how  we'll  do  it.  Today  is  the 
ninth,  just  a  month  since  the  advance ;  and  we've 
hardly  been  out  of  the  line  at  all.  There's  a 
limit,  and  I  think  we've  reached  it.  Five  million 
men  they  say  we  have.  Well,  where  in  hell  are 
they?  Is  it  up  to  Canada  to  win  this  bloody 
war  ?     Nearly  a  month  since  we  were  paid,  even. 

It's  silly,  I  suppose,  to  say,  "Don't  worry." 

You  must  do  as  I  do  —  hope  for  the  best. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  197 

12  May,  '17. 

My  dearest  Lai :  — 

I  hadn't  intended  writing  again  till  we  came 
out.  Rumours  seem  to  be  rather  persistent  that 
a  little  more  is  expected  of  us,  in  fact  that  there 
is  to  be  a  show,  more  or  less  big,  and  we  must  — 
I  mean  our  outfit  must  —  pull  off  the  stunt.  Of 
course  we  hope  otherwise.  I  can't  even  tell  you 
any  of  the  details  of  what  I  have  heard ;  but 
something  is  going  to  happen,  I  guess,  and  so  I 
thought  I'd  better  write  you.  We  move  up  to- 
night, without  our  kits  or  anything,  into  another 
of  those  delightful  ditches  misnamed  trenches, 
where  there's  no  cover  and  damn  little  protection ; 
where  the  whole  works  "stands  to"  all  night  and 
endeavours  to  sleep  all  day.  We  shan't  have  a 
kick  unless  we  have  to  perform  the  over-the-bags 
stunt.  I've  seen  an  aeroplane  picture  —  these 
are  shown  us  regularly  —  of  what's  in  front  of 
us,  and  there's  a  row  of  machine  gun  emplace- 
ments connected  up  like  this  =0=0=  running 
right  across  the  picture. 

H'ver,  long  before  you  get  this,  the  scrap  will 
be  old,  old  news ;  and  anyway,  maybe  they  won't 
need  us  —  this  time. 

Last  night  quite  suddenly  we  loosed  up  one  of 
our  wonderful  bombardments.  No  words  can 
ever  describe  it;  the  air  all  trembles,  and  there 
is  no  distinction  whatever  between  the  shocks, 


198       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

yet  so  many  guns  take  part  in  these  displays  that 
I  am  told  one  individual  gun  never  fires  more  than 
four  rounds  a  minute,  and  more  likely  only  three. 
Of  course  they  are  more  than  wheel  to  wheel; 
they  are  in  bunches,  behind  and  around  each 
other.  When  this  starts,  Heinie  always  gets  the 
wind  up  for  fair,  and  his  trenches  all  along  send 
up  every  S.O.S.  signal  he  has :  green  flares,  red 
flares,  strings  of  all  colours  and  shapes,  and  what 
with  all  these  and  the  light  in  the  sky  from  the 
guns  and  the  roar,  it's  a  scene  like  nothing  that 
has  ever  happened  before. 

I  have  been  under  shell  fire  in  the  open  and  in 
trenches  when  only  a  few  batteries  were  working, 
and  it's  rotten,  to  put  it  mildly;  so  we  can  all 
understand  just  what  is  happening  when  our 
guns  turn  on  him  with  a  regular  performance. 
Frankly,  I  don't  know  what  he  does ;  I  don't  see 
what  he  can  do.  In  his  newer  trenches  he  cer- 
tainly can't  have  deep  dugouts,  and  without  these 
he's  helpless.  Funk  holes  are  no  good.  So  it's 
certain  he  must  suffer  terribly.  Some  day  I 
expect  these  bombardments  to  break  his  spirit 
and  cause  a  rout.  I  told  you,  I  think,  how  he 
massed  seven  lines  of  men  to  retake  Vimy  Ridge  and 
we  caught  them  down  in  the  plains  below.  They 
never  even  got  within  Hve  hundred  yards  of  it. 

Though  there  is  little  to  pack  up,  it  seems  to 
keep  every  one  busy  the  day  before  a  trip  in, 
getting  everything  shipshape.     I'm  going  to  take 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  199 

two  water  bottles ;  I  have  a  hunch  there'll  be 
rows  this  time.  I  have  some  candles  left.  We've 
been  able  to  have  a  fire  here,  but  of  course  one 
will  be  napoo  up  there.  And  we  swiped  some  dry 
tea  this  morning.  I  don't  think  we'll  be  in  long, 
anyway,  even  if  we  go  over  — 

In  less  than  a  week  I'll  be  writing  again. 

Au  revoir,  Lai  dear.  Remember  I  shall  be 
thinking  of  you  —  you  both  —  all  the  time. 

Late  afternoon. 

I've  had  a  lovely  shave  and  wash.  The  towel, 
soap,  powder,  also  the  Gillette  blades  were  an 
inspiration.  After  that  I  strolled  over  to  the 
next  trench  behind  us  where  B.  is  and  lay  in  the 
sun  and  talked.  Such  are  active  service  con- 
ditions —  when  the  weather's  fine,  and  Fritz  is 
strafing  some  one  else. 

Casualties  occur  even  here.  While  lining  up 
for  breakfast,  this  morning,  a  fellow  just  in  front 
of  me  picked  up  an  old,  undischarged  flare  light. 
It  went  off  in  his  hand,  taking  nearly  half  of  it  off. 
There  11  be  bad  accidents  here  for  years ;  the 
ground  is  a  mass  of  unexploded  bombs. 

Evening. 

Did  I  mention  in  one  of  my  letters  about  send- 
ing some  of  that  cocoa,  sugar,  and  milk  stuff? 
They  put  it  up  in  small  tins,  quite  small.  Send 
two  or  three  at  a  time,  four  or  five  of  those  plain 


£00       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

bars  of  chocolate,  one  can  of  Oxo,  same  as  before, 
a  small  towel  just  the  same  as  the  last,  no  socks  — 
got  plenty  —  a  few  candles,  and  cakes.  And 
cakes.     And  then  cakes.     Early  and  often. 

Do  you  know  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
you're  a  very  lucky  girl.  I  don't  know  any  one  else 
that  writes  letters,  except  when  they  are  out.  K.  is 
engaged  to  a  sweet-looking  girl  —  at  least  her  photo 
is  sweet  —  yet  he  doesn't  write  as  much  as  I  do. 

15  May,  '17. 
My  very  dearest  Lai :  — 

Have  just  come  down  the  stairs  of  a  Fritz  dug- 
out—  "safety  first"  —  as  the  afternoon  strafe 
has  begun.  We  moved  "up"  to  a  delightful 
place  all  surrounded  with  guns,  our  guns,  which 
Heinie  seems  to  know  all  about,  down  to  an  inch, 
and  keeps  us  in  a  perpetual  state  of  flopping  and 
"scrunching"  up  in  funk  holes,  dodging  shell 
slivers.  Yesterday  he  kept  it  up  off  and  on  all 
the  time.  I  had  a  very  nice  sandbag  funk  hole. 
It  wasn't  far  from  what  was  once  a  road.  All 
afternoon  he  shelled  where  he  thought  batteries 
were;  and  as  the  nearest  was  at  least  fifty  yards 
off,  we  felt  fairly  safe.  Towards  evening,  I 
noticed  that  they  seemed  to  be  dropping  closer 
to  our  "home."  Good  big  rocks  began  to  drop 
in  it,  and  the  concussion  of  bursts  began  to  be 
unpleasant.  I  said  to  the  fellows  I  was  in  with, 
"Here's  where  I  beat  it."    And  I  did.     They 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  201 

followed,  as  did  another  fellow  in  the  next  funk 
hole  who  had  heard  us  talking.  We  just  got  a 
few  yards,  when  two  dropped  in  our  late  doorway. 
Can  you  beat  it  ?  Is  luck  like  this  going  to  last  ? 
Can  my  hunches  always  be  relied  on  ?  The  fellow 
who  had  heard  me  talking  and  came,  too,  got  hit. 
I  had  to  put  five  dressings  on  him,  all  slight 
wounds.  The  lucky  devil !  Today  he's  laid  in 
a  nice  white  bed  with  a  Sister  handing  him  cool 
drinks.  Why  couldn't  it  have  been  me?  It's 
all  very  well  to  be  whole  and  un wounded;  but 
this  life  is  not  exactly  a  rest  cure,  and  anybody 
can  have  it  for  me.  .  .  . 

We  have  the  Canadian  papers  now,  giving  the 
account  of  the  Vimy  scrap  —  rather  amusing  some 
of  it.  One  of  the  papers  said  the  preliminary 
bombardment  lasted  ten  days.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  lasted  less  than  an  hour ;  but  it  was  the  concen- 
trated kind  and  evidently  lasted  long  enough.  .  .  . 

One  thing  you  said  in  your  letter  —  that  you 
supposed  I  would  get  hard  and  all  that,  through 
this  thing.  Well,  the  exact  opposite  is  the  case. 
The  sight  of  this  continual  killing  and  wounding 
is  making  me  madder  and  madder  at  such  waste. 
I  have  even  got  where  I  wouldn't  kill  a  mouse  or  a 
bird,  if  you  paid  me.  It  seems  ridiculous  maybe, 
but  that's  how  it  is  with  me  at  present. 
■t  Tonight  I  go  on  a  working  party,  and  I  guess 
in  a  day  or  so  we  take  the  advance  line,  and  in  due 
course  out  again  —  the  sooner  the  better. 


202       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

19  May,  '17. 

This  little  bit  of  blossom  was  growing  in  a 
destroyed  orchard,  the  only  apple  tree  I  saw 
alive  in  the  village  of  Vimy.  All  the  trees  — 
those  alive  —  are  green  now,  but  there  are  not 
many  flowers.  I  saw  a  lilac  bush  one  day.  Such 
sights  give  you  quite  a  shock  amongst  all  the 
wreckage.  By  the  way  I  forgot  —  I  haven't  heard 
yet  if  Heinie  claims  he  has  retired  from  here  "ac- 
cording to  plan"  ;  but  if  he  says  so,  why  did  he  — 
considering  the  shortage  of  grain  in  Germany  and 
for  obvious  other  reasons  —  why  did  he  sow  a  lot 
of  fields,  even  up  to  and  on  the  Ridge,  with  grain  ? 
It's  just  coming  up  nicely  between  the  shell  holes. 

We  have  moved  to  a  different  line  of  trenches, 
much  better  ones  this  time,  where  you  can  light 
a  fire  and  walk  around.  .  .  . 

The  weather  has  changed  for  the  worse  —  not 
very  cold,  but  raining  and  cloudy  all  the  time. 
Your  comfort  seems  to  depend  absolutely  on  the 
weather.  Only  very  few  of  the  boys  pack  an 
overcoat,  and  of  course  no  blanket  or  anything. 
The  other  night,  we  were  on  a  wiring  party,  laying 
barbed  wire  out  in  front.  It  rained  all  the  time ; 
in  an  hour  the  water  was  through  every  one's 
clothes.  It  would  be  alright,  of  course,  if  you  had 
a  place  to  sleep  dry  afterwards,  but  you  haven't ; 
you  just  dry  out  as  you  can.  When  we  quit 
before  dawn,  we  came  into  our  funk  holes  and 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  203 

just  lay  as  we  were.  How  you  do  it,  I  dunno', . — 
but  you  do  and  somehow  no  one  ever  seems  to 
even  get  a  cold,  but  it's  not  pleasant.  In  the 
sunshine,  everything  is  lovely. 

...  It  is  an  effort  to  write  and  it  should  be 
a  pleasure.  One  thing,  the  interest,  as  a  spectacle, 
very  soon  goes  out  of  the  thing.  From  a  looker- 
on  —  a  man  on  the  staff  —  a  newspaper  corre- 
spondent's view,  it's  all  different  of  course.  We 
who  live  it  and  cannot  get  away  from  it,  see  it 
with  different  eyes.  Once  I  was  wildly  inter- 
ested in  villages  and  woods  and  positions;  but  I 
find  all  that  leaving  me.  A  trench  position  has 
an  interest  only  in  so  far  as  whether  it  is  usually 
quiet  or  otherwise.  As  we  hardly  ever  see  a 
paper,  we  know  little  as  to  the  progress  of  the 
war,  so  we  never  discuss  it.  Of  course,  the  every- 
day events  of  the  life  abound  with  incidents 
of  interest,  many  dramatic  and  humorous;  but 
when  you  come  to  want  to  write  of  them,  a  sort 
of  lassitude  comes  over  you  and,  fight  against  it 
as  you  will,  it's  no  use. 

When  you  get  orders  for  so  many  days  in  the 
lines,  you  don't  go  all  keen  and  excited,  you  know, 
as  if  you  were  going  to  a  party ;  though  I'll  admit 
once  I  used  to  feel  keen,  keen  to  see  it.  Not 
now,  though. 

Tonight  we  go  in  for  six  days  —  I  mean  we  go 
to  new  positions  for  six  days;  we've  never  been 
"out"  yet;  it  seems  a  long  time.     But  I  hope 


204       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

by  then  anyway  we'll  have  the  rest  we've  looked 
forward  to  so  long.  .  .  . 

Kiss  little  Bill  for  me  —  tell  her  that  Dad  looks 
forward  to  the  good  times  to  come.  Only  last 
night  I  was  planning  a  swell  funk  hole  we'll  make 
in  the  woods,  one  summer ;  and  have  a  real  camp 
out. 

20  May,  '17. 

Last  night,  we  got  in  without  incident  of  any 
kind.  It  was  a  fine  night,  and  we  were  in  time  to 
get  a  sleep.  I  am  more  than  usually  lucky  in 
the  funk  hole  allotted  —  at  least  by  appearance. 
It's  one  of  those  trenches  not  connected  by  a 
communication  trench;  you  must  go  overland. 
Mine  is  quite  secure  from  shrapnel  of  the  over- 
head variety,  and  safe  even  from  shell  fire  of  the 
other  kind,  provided  they  don't  drop  too  near 
and  cave  it  in.  The  trenches  all  along  this  new 
country  are  getting  better  and  better.  Each 
relief  fixes  them  up  a  little  bit  better,  until  even- 
tually they  get  to  be  regular  homes  and  safe  from 
'most  everything  but  direct  hits.  .  .  . 

Rations  are  now  getting  like  they  are  having 
at  the  Somme  —  abundant.  I  imagine  the  same 
amounts  go  to  a  brigade  or  division  all  the  time. 
When  a  push  comes  and  the  numbers  decrease, 
there's  more  to  eat  for  every  one.  There  was  a 
more  pleasant  surprise,  this  morning,  when  gaso- 
line cans  of  strong  hot  tea  arrived  —  right  over- 
land —  also  butter  and  bread  and  so  forth.     It's 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  £05 

amazing  what  a  difference  lots  to  eat  makes  on 
your  outlook  in  the  line.  There  was  mail,  too. 
I  got  a  letter  from  B.  with  some  more  envelopes. 
He  says  his  commission  is  gone  through,  and  asked 
me  to  even  picture  him  bathing  in  the  sea  in 
Blighty.  Some  fellows  have  all  the  luck.  I  miss 
K.  this  trip  —  another  lucky  devil,  enjoying  a 
course  of  some  sort  in  a  town  away  back,  though 
another  fellow  we  know  well  got  shot  to  pieces 
with  nerves  and  is  gone  to  Blighty  for  a  complete 
rest. 

The  chap  bunking  with  me  is  an  unconscious 
humorist,  he  just  said,  —  "  Gee,  listen  to  those 
birds  singing.  I  wish  I  was  on  my  old  chicken 
ranch,  listening  to  them.  Six  days  of  this  yet, 
and  the  world  was  made  in  six  days !" 

Mentioning  the  birds,  it's  curious ;  but  you  see 
'em  all  the  time  right  out  in  No  Man's  Land  — 
the  only  things  besides  the  slackers  at  home  that 
don't  seem  to  realize  there's  a  war  on. 

My  "roomy"  is  a  philosopher  of  sorts.  Lying 
on  his  back,  smoking,  he  says,  "Can  you  imagine 
anything  more  absurd  than  this :  a  peaceful  sum- 
mer day,  and  millions  of  men  lined  up,  just  like 
this,  in  holes  in  the  earth,  afraid  to  walk  out  in 
the  field  ?  They  call  it  freeing  the  world.  The 
absurdity  of  it  all,  as  if  we  were  born  for  this!" 
—  and  so  on. 

And  —  isn't  it  just  too  utterly  absurd  ?  A 
few  men  you  have  never  seen,  at  a  gun  eight  or 


206       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

nine  miles  away,  send  over  a  shell  trying  to  kill 
a  few  more  that  they  don't  know  and  haven't 
seen  either  —  and  all  the  world  busy  at  it !  How 
preposterous,  when  we  could  all  be  enjoying  life, 
and  doing  work,  and  good,  around  !  What  thoughts 
crowd  up  when  you  let  yourself  think  of  it !  The 
Fritzies  in  the  trench  over  there  don't  really  want 
to  kill  us ;  they  want  to  sit  quiet  just  like  we  do. 
They'd  be  just  as  sore  as  us,  if  anything  started 
right  now.  Dozens  of  'em  are  writing  letters  and 
reading  just  as  we  are. 

Yet  —  we  are  the  goats.  The  fellows  who 
really  want  the  thing  are  miles  and  miles  away 
from  the  shells  and  the  hardships.  They  know 
they  will  live,  whereas  I  don't  know  I'll  even  live 
to  finish  this  letter.  After  it's  over,  they  win 
anyway  —  because  we  have  lost  years  or  months 
of  happiness,  and  our  health  in  any  case  impaired 
for  good.  The  old  times  had  it  all  onus.  Their 
kings  led  'em  into  battle,  and  took  a  chance,  too. 

Yet  if  I  hadn't  come,  I'd  have  despised  myself 
forever !  .  .  . 

Evening. 

I  notice  I  am  getting  most  awfully  thin.  I 
guess  that  must  be  why  so  many  of  those  nice 
bits  of  shell  splinters  don't  plunk  me.  My  luck 
simply  won't  go  that  way  at  all.  A  lovely  op- 
portunity occurred  the  other  day;  only  about  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  dressing  station,  I  was 
talking    to    the    two    chief    stretcher    bearers  — 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  207 

everything  all  stage-managed  to  perfection.  Heinie 
plugs  a  4.1  over,  and  the  two  other  fellows  get 
the  splinters.  Now  if  I  had  just  had  a  nice 
piece  in  the  arm,  had  been  all  nicely  fixed  up  and 
gone  over  to  the  dressing  station,  got  the  am- 
bulance there  for  the  clearing  station,  then  the 
train  —  all  French  hospitals  busy  —  so  bang 
straight  through  to  Blighty,  then  a  nice  stiffness 
would  develop,  a  few  boards,  the  first  one,  saying 
"I  think  this  man  had  better  go  back  to  Canada." 
How's  that  for  a  nice  little  program,  eh  ?  .  .  . 

22  May,  '17. 
My  ownest  Kiddie :  — 

Tonight  we  move  on  to  the  last  stage  and  the 
most  desperate  one  of  our  adventure. 

It's  raining,  cloudy,  wretched.  Even  in  this 
trench  where  we  have  a  roofed  funk  hole,  it  is  bad. 
Up  there,  it  will  be  unpleasant.  It  is  our  portion  : 
days  and  nights  spent  in  watching  and  waiting  — 
the  nervous  strain  about  to  the  limit  all  the  time. 
The  regular  trench  stuff  was  a  holiday  to  it.  Then 
you  went  about  your  business  peacefully,  each 
side  attending  to  his  own  affairs  safely  behind 
barbed  wire.  For  diversion,  both  sides  threw 
over  a  few  trench  mortar  bombs,  or  made  a  raid, 
or  something.  The  trenches  were  as  near  real 
protection  as  they  could  be  made ;  moreover,  the 
enemy  not  having  been  living  there  recently,  didn't 


208       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

know  more  about  your  line  than  you  did.  There 
were  communication  trenches,  and  bays  in  the 
front  line  to  prevent  enfilading,  and  one  shell  was 
confined  in  its  activities  to  the  particular  bay  it 
dropped  in. 

Up  here  we  have  none  of  these  things,  no  wire, 
no  anything,  just  a  narrow  ditch.  The  material 
dug  out,  being  mostly  chalk,  shows  clearly  like  a 
dirty  white  snake  across  the  countryside. 

Nothing  runs  to  schedule.  Each  side  period- 
ically gets  "the  wind  up",  owing  to  their  state 
of  nerves.  Up  go  the  S.O.S.'s  and  over  comes 
the  rain  of  steel  and  iron.  If  it's  a  false  alarm, 
this  gradually  dies  down  like  a  storm,  the  flares 
resume  their  normal  colour  and  regular  frequency, 
and  each  side  carries  on  —  watching  —  waiting  as 
before.  Sometimes  it  is  not  a  false  alarm,  and 
then  there  is  "dirty  work  at  the  cross  roads", 
and  three  lines  in  the  newspaper  the  following 
day.  ... 

I  shall  always  contend  that  the  Canadians 
should  not  be  sent  in  the  same  place  twice.  Their 
temperament  is  different  to  the  English;  they 
like  change.  Sitting  under  shell  fire  is  not  good 
for  any  one ;  but  I  think  less  good  for  them.  In 
a  war  of  movement  and  attack,  they  are  splendid. 
Look  at  Vimy  Ridge.  Then  again  I  may  be 
wrong,  because  look  at  Ypres  which  has  been  all 
"hold."  Still,  a  new  front,  if  only  a  mile  away, 
has  an  interest  the  old  front  has  not.     It  is  better 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  209 

not  to  know  the  danger,  in  my  opinion.  This  is 
the  last  trip  for  a  while,  and  a  few  weeks'  polishing 
buttons  and  ceremonial  parades  will  work  wonders 
to  our  nerves.  I  guess  it's  all  pie  for  us  compared 
to  Fritz.  I  don't  know  how  he  stands  it  at  all. 
The  more  I  hear  of  his  last  attack  on  us,  the  less 
I  understand  it.  He  came  over  in  droves  to 
occupy  our  trench  —  overland.  He  had  no  com- 
munication trench;  there  was  nothing  to  gain; 
it  wasn't  a  strong  point.  They  must  have  known, 
even  if  they  consolidated  it,  we  should  merely 
blow  them  out  again  with  artillery.  If  the  relief 
had  not  just  been  taking  place,  he'd  never  have 
reached  it;  as  it  was,  he  only  held  it  an  hour  or 
two.  Going  and  coming  he  must  have  lost  a 
great  many  men  —  for  what  ?  Of  course,  it  may 
all  have  been  part  of  a  big  plan  of  which  I  know 
nothing;  but,  on  the  face  of  it,  it  looks  just  like 
a  useless  killing  for  nothing.  I  am  convinced 
now  that  he  comes  over,  doped.  Every  one  seems 
to  agree  on  that.     I  guess  he  needs  it. 

Well,  I  didn't  intend  to  write  about  the  war  — 
just  a  note  merely  —  to  say  an  revoir. 

I  know  you  would  wish  me  a  good  trip  —  and  a 
safe  return.  If  you  get  another  letter  it  will  be 
from  more  cheerful  surroundings. 

....  Good-by,  dearie  —  I'll  be  holding  your 
hand. 


£10       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

28  May,  '17. 

My  dearest  Lai :  — 

....  The  last  letter  I  wrote  was  on  the  eve 
of  going  in ;  not  in  from  away  back,  but  in  from 
another  line  of  trenches.  It  was  the  advance 
point  of  the  extremest  advance  point  of  the  whole 
works,  as  it  figures  on  the  map  of  things  at  this 
time  on  our  front  —  which  I  guess  is  the  most 
advanced  point  that  the  British  hold  on  the  North 
Sea  —  And  —  well  —  here  I  am  !  That's  the 
main  thing.  We  are  out  and  out  for  a  rest. 
This  is  only  our  temporary  camp.  We  are 
through  —  oh  —  ye  —  Gods  !  Through  !  Think 
of  it !  For  —  maybe  —  even  four  weeks.  I  could 
cheer  on  paper  if  it  were  possible.  We  are  going 
back  —  back  away  from  it  all  —  back  away  from 
shells  —  and  Heinie  and  all  his  works,  and  just 
get  our  nerves  back.  Since  April  8th,  I  have  not 
been  really  away  from  things ;  no  one  who  does 
not  understand  can  realize  what  it  means.  .  .  . 

1  June,  '17. 

My  very  dearest  Lai :  — 

I  have  only  written  one  letter  to  you  since  we 
came  out  for  our  long  rest.  The  joke  is,  there  has 
been  less  spare  time  so  far  during  our  "rest"  than 
there  is  in  the  front  line.  The  first  few  days 
were  taken  up  with  our  long  "polish  brass  work", 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  211 

and  rehearsing  for  the  big  brass  hats'  inspection. 
Finally  the  great  moment  arrived,  and  passed, 
just  like  any  other  inspection  in  Canada  or  Eng- 
land ;  though  two  months  ago  it  was  impossible 
to  travel  over  the  scene  of  it  otherwise  than  down 
the  connecting  trenches,  and,  as  it  was,  Heinie's 
planes  were  up  most  days.  There  was  one  big 
difference  between  the  inspection  and  a  similar 
one  at  home.  There,  every  one  would  be  grouch- 
ing and  kicking  and  cussing  the  whole  apparently 
useless  business.  Here,  no  one  ever  let  out  a 
peep,  not  us.  You  bet  we  know  when  we  are 
well  off,  and  not  a  man  who  would  not  be  tickled 
to  death  to  go  through  all  the  harassing  and 
irritations  every  day,  for  "the  duration."  No. 
Anything  away  from  those  shells,  anything,  has 
that  beat. 

I  wish  intensely  —  I  could  make  you  grasp  the 
gigantic  difference  between  "in"  and  "out",  be- 
tween a  job  behind  the  lines  and  one  in  them. 
There  can  be  no  state  of  life  in  the  world  where 
such  differences  exist,  away  from  the  war  zone. 
This  morning  we  started  in  our  big  hike  to  our 
resting  village,  bands  playing,  everybody  happy, 
perfect  weather.  Today  I  have  seen  cows  and 
chickens,  women  and  children  and  little  gardens 
for  the  first  time  since  going  up.  This  is  a  very 
lovely  part  of  France  (behind  the  lines).  All  the 
trees  are  in  full  leaf;  May  trees  scent  the  air; 
old  men  are  training  the  green  peas  up  sticks  in 


%\%       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

their  little  gardens,  and  tonight  an  old  hen  walked 
past  me  with  a  brood  of  chickens.  All  the  men 
we  meet  —  soldiers  I  mean  —  have  the  natural 
bearing  and  expression  that  we  once  had  before 
we  saw  the  line.  You  can  never  mistake  a  man 
who  has  been  "in",  no  matter  how  smartly  you 
dress  him  and  polish  him.  Put  him  amongst  a 
thousand  who  work  behind,  and  you'll  pick  him 
out  instantly.  I  have  tried  to  define  just  where 
this  difference  is,  many  times,  but  I  cannot. 
It's  not  in  his  face;  our  boys  look  the  happi- 
est in  France.  Is  it  in  the  bearing,  the  eyes 
—  what  ? 

We  are  making  the  journey  by  easy  stages. 
Our  billet  for  the  night  is  an  old  French  farm- 
house, built  in  a  kind  of  square,  the  house,  such 
as  it  is,  with  the  doors  built  in  halves  like  I  re- 
member our  cowshed  was  at  home.  The  other 
three  sides  by  stables  and  barns,  the  whole  of  the 
centre  of  square  being  a  large  and  very  odoriferous 
manure  heap.  This  reaches  right  up  to  the  front 
door  of  the  house ;  they  don't  seem  to  mind.  On 
a  board  outside  is  painted  90  hommes  —  1  bed. 
This  doesn't  mean  ninety  men  sleep  in  one  bed ; 
the  bed  is  for  one  officer.  Our  places  are  in  the 
various  "offices"  in  the  farm.  The  old  man 
made  a  great  to-do  about  opening  the  door  of  his 
wagon  shed  which  he  had  locked.  No  one  could 
speak  French;  half  a  dozen  officers  had  a  try  at 
him   without  result.     Only  more  gesticulations. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  21S 

Luckily  a  French  Canadian  passed  and  was  com- 
mandeered, explanations  were  forthcoming,  the 
door  was  unlocked,  and  the  wagons  pushed  on  to 
the  manure  heap  and  the  men  crowded  in.  The 
weather  being  so  lovely,  most  of  the  boys  are 
finding  places  outside  for  themselves ;  though 
we  are  travelling  without  a  blanket  —  we  are 
hardened.  I  have  found  an  old  buggy  hood  and 
a  fairly  sweet  smelling  horse  rug.  This  I  have 
fixed  under  a  hawthorne  tree  in  full  bloom,  and 
am  comfy  and  contented. 

The  little  village  has  been  taken  complete  pos- 
session of  by  the  men.  The  village  green  by  the 
old  mill  is  covered  with  the  boys  talking  and 
sleeping  and  contentedly  doing  nothing.  Every 
tree  shades  a  bunch,  the  cook  houses  —  or  "mulli- 
gan guns"  as  they  are  called  —  have  fired  their 
rounds  of  stew  and  tea.  Those  millionaires  with 
money  from  home  have  bought  eggs  and  fried 
them,  and  all  is  peaceful  and  happy.  The  guns 
are  already  too  far  off  to  hear,  and  any  man  re- 
ferring to  the  war  in  any  form  would  be  thrown 
down  the  well.  The  French  women  remind  us 
sometimes,  when  they  say,  "are  we  from  Vimy." 
The  answer,  "Om,  Madame"  always  brings  a 
rather  awed  and  satisfied  "A — h."  We  had  for- 
gotten we  took  the  famous  Ridge,  —  and  there- 
fore "some"  boys ! 

There  is  a  fly  in  the  ointment :  no  mail,  and  no 
money.     Canadian  mail  seems  to  have  stopped 


£14       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

altogether,  and  money :     Oh,  if  only  we  had  some 
now,  when  we  really  need  it ! 

And  now  I  will  turn  into  my  "Bivvy."  To- 
morrow we  pass  on  through  the  long  lines  of 
poplars  to  the  next  village,  out,  still  further  out. 
Thank  God ! 

Next  Day. 

Well,  we  have  arrived  at  our  village  and  got 
all  fixed  up.  There  are  four  of  us  in  our  billet, 
an  outhouse  at  the  back  of  a  cottage,  with  the 
chickens  and  rabbits  for  neighbours.  Everything 
is  "merry  and  bright";  all  we  need  now  is  pay, 
and  some  mail,  and  I  guess  we'll  get  both.  I  only 
hope  you  have  sent  a  parcel  or  two  along,  and 
written  pretty  regularly. 

I  think  all  we  have  to  do  is  physical  training, 
and  there'll  be  games  and  sports  in  plenty;  that 
is,  unless  there's  to  be  another  big  stunt  pulled 
off,  when  we  shall  be  very  fully  occupied  indeed 
going  "over  the  tapes"  —  i.e.  taking  an  objective 
arranged  from  aeroplane  photographs.  Before 
the  last  scrap,  the  ground  was  even  exactly  re- 
produced in  a  huge  plaster  of  paris  cast,  every 
stone  and  rut  reproduced  to  an  inch,  all  from 
plane  pictures.  This  thing  is  now  an  exact 
science. 

I  saw  a  great  air  fight,  this  last  trip  in,  so  close 
that  the  bullets  from  their  machine  guns  plopped 
into  the  ground  all  around  us,  when  their  noses 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  215 

dived  our  way.  The  proper  thing  to  do  was  to 
get  into  the  funk  hole  —  but  I  couldn't  have  done 
it  on  a  bet.  I  was  too  interested,  and  stood  glued 
up  against  the  parapet.  No  one  was  brought 
down,  which  was  a  good  thing  for  us,  as  they'd 
have  come  right  on  top  of  us.  I  guess  there 
cannot  be  a  more  exciting  thing  to  watch;  the 
curves  and  loop  the  loops  they  made  —  there 
were  eight  of  them,  four  German,  four  English  — 
were  positively  the  last  thing  in  thrills.  The 
whirr  of  the  engines,  the  rattle  of  the  machine 
guns,  and  the  excitement  in  wondering  when  one 
is  going  to  pot  the  other,  and  all,  is  just  the  limit. 
They  were  quite  low,  too  low  for  us  in  fact.  The 
fight  took  place  over  our  lines,  an  unusual  thing, 
and  it  wouldn't  have  happened,  only  our  machines 
were  not  the  latest  type,  and  Fritz  took  a  chance. 
After  about  three  minutes  of  furious  wheeling  up, 
down  and  around,  the  four  Germans  headed  for 
home.  The  air  situation  is  entirely  in  our  hands. 
We  have  a  wonder  of  a  machine,  a  thing  that 
streaks  across  the  sky  just  like  a  hawk.  It's  a 
peach,  can  make  one  hundred  and  eighty  miles 
an  hour,  built  in  three  decks.  We  are  numer- 
ically superior,  much  so ;  we  patrol  the  sky  per- 
petually in  formations,  the  fast-flying  machines 
circling  above  them.  In  the  earliest  dawn  or 
latest  evening  you  see  them,  and  at  night  you  hear 
them ;  they  are  never  out  of  the  sky  at  any  time. 
Fritz  seizes  his  opportunity  quick,  and  he  has  a 


216       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

very  good  machine,  rushes  in  between  patrols  and 
rushes  back.  He  has  only  to  fly  fifty-six  hours 
to  get  an  iron  cross  —  (official).  He  patrols  our 
front  line  a  lot,  which  is  nerve  racking  to  the  boys 
in,  but  always  runs  away  as  our  machines  ap- 
proach. Making  a  quick,  or  even  slow,  trip  over 
a  strip  of  front  line  trench  is  easy,  of  course ;  the 
hard  part  of  it  is  to  leisurely  circle  around  and 
round  for  hours  at  a  time  back  of  the  enemy's 
lines.  This  he  never  does;  he  cannot.  And  we 
do,  all  the  time.  That's  how  far  the  superiority 
goes,  which  is  being  so  much  discussed  —  the 
reason  of  our  heavy  casualties  is  that  we  have  ten 
machines  up  to  his  one  and  we  are  always  out, 
where  he  only  rushes  in  and  out  a  few  minutes  at 
a  time.  Just  the  same,  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
he  has  a  very  good  machine  and  some  good  men, 
and  often  gets  in  some  very  good  work.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  he  is  handicapped  for  machines. 

Our  new  O.C.  was  a  private  and  wears  the 
D.C.M.  won  while  in  that  trying  capacity.  He's 
a  splendid  man,  easily  the  best  O.C.  in  the  Battn. 
and  an  officer  has  to  be  some  good  fellow  to  get 
the  confidence  and  liking  of  his  men  in  the  line. 

Usually  after  about  the  second  day  we  are  out, 
they  discover  they  are  "officers"  and  act  accord- 
ingly. In  the  front  line,  they  share  their  cigarettes 
and  water  and  your  funk  hole  with  you,  and  talk, 
and  ask  questions  from  the  sergeant  about  what 
they  are  to  do.     About  the  most  insignificant  thing 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  217 

in  a  front  line  is  a  platoon  officer,  while  he's  there ; 
when  he's  out,  he's  a  tin  god  again. 

When  they  went  over  the  top  in  the  big  show, 
our  officer  —  not  the  one  we  have  now  —  started 
to  give  orders.  The  sergeant  says,  —  "Hey." 
Puts  up  his  hand.  "I'm  running  this  show." 
And  he  did. 

I've  seen  a  newspaper  most  every  day  for  a 
while.  I  dunno'  how  things  look  to  you ;  but 
I'm  not  awfully  impressed.  I  think  they're  just 
filling  us  up  with  hot  air  about  Russia.  In  my 
opinion  she's  a  thing  of  the  past,  as  regards  a 
factor  of  this  war.  The  States  seem  to  be  back- 
ing up  fairly,  and  are  going  to  be  a  most  valuable 
ally  —  much  more  so  than  I  first  thought.  I  bet 
they  are  going  to  do  something  anyway  worth 
while.  One  thing  that  seems  plainly  obvious  to 
one  is  that  there's  another  winter's  war  ahead  of 
us,  and  all  of  next  year  most  likely  as  well.  The 
handwriting  on  the  wall  is  plain  enough  to  see. 

I  think  of  you  hundreds  of  times  a  day,  and  long 
to  be  able  to  plan.     But  — ! 

Tell  Billie  I  am  thinking  of  her,  and  loving  her, 
too.     Kiss  her  for  me. 

And  to  my  dearie  —  just  all  my  heart. 

9  June,  '17. 

My  dearest  Lai : 

Well,  the  leave  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  Nothing 
to  look  forward  to  but  the  end  of  the  war,  I  guess. 


218       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

When  I  got  back,  last  night,  the  Battn.  was  in  the 
same  place;  and  I  was  more  than  glad,  believe 
me,  as  to  have  gone  direct  into  the  line  would 
have  surely  been  the  limit  of  contrasts.  Even 
in  the  short  time  I've  been  away,  I  seem  to  have 
lost  touch  with  it  all.  A  dozen  times  I  started  a 
letter  in  London,  but  never  finished  it ;  it  was  all 
so  different,  all  of  it,  that  I  could  never  concen- 
trate. I  stayed  at  the  Club  all  the  time,  the  one 
in  Charles  St.,  Lady  Drummond's  house,  and  had 
for  a  companion  most  of  the  time  an  officer  in  the 
Flying  Corps.  We  met  in  the  Club;  he  had 
once  been  a  private  in  a  Canadian  Battn.  and  was 
waiting  for  a  transfer  to  the  American  Flying 
Corps.  He  certainly  was  a  nice  boy,  in  a  "nice" 
way,  as  also  was  my  other  companion,  a  ser- 
geant I  met  in  the  winter.  He  was  over  in  London 
for  a  commission  —  and  we  all  went  everywhere 
together.  I  guess  we  saw  everything  worth  see- 
ing. We  saw  a  show  of  some  sort  every  day. 
And  I  have  never  seen  such  turns  —  never.  Of 
course  I  was  prepared  to  like  everything,  but  I'm 
sure  I  never  saw  better;  the  music,  everything, 
the  dresses,  the  lightness,  and  brightness  of  it  all. 
I  couldn't  get  it.  After  this.  It  came  as  a  shock 
that  our  life  together  ought  to  include  this.  I 
was  homesick  as  the  very  devil ;  often  I  wished  I 
had  never  come  —  I  wanted  you. 

Not  once,  but  a  thousand  times,  I  tried  to  grasp 
the  fact  that  so  few  miles  away  a  hell  was  raging 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  219 

—  and  couldn't.  No  wonder  these  people  don't 
understand.  How  could  they?  Lovely  silk 
clothes  and  flowers  and  fruit  and  happiness  don't 
"jibe"  with  "the  line." 

And  the  life  of  the  town,  at  least  on  the  surface, 
is  just  the  same.  One  seems  to  half  expect  them 
to  go  about  in  black,  be  mournful,  and  serious, 
and  grim,  yet  I  suppose  theirs  is  the  better  way. 
It  makes  you  feel  mad  though,  too,  sometimes,  to 
see  so  much  happiness  and  flippancy.  It  did  me, 
anyway ;  yet  I  would  hate  you  to  be  unhappy 
just  because  I  am  here.  Never  have  I  seen  so 
much  gayety  and  richness  of  apparel,  and  spend- 
ing of  money  in  London  before.  The  shops  are 
full  of  the  most  expensive  things ;  flowers  and 
expensive  fruit,  and  "eats"  of  the  most  elaborate 
seemed  to  me  more  common  by  far  than  before. 
And  the  prices  —  Good  Heavens  —  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it.  I  can't  think  where  the  money 
can  all  come  from. 

When  I  was  over  in  Blighty,  I  went  to  see  a 
boy's  mother  for  him.  She  made  me  stay  all 
night  and  was  so  hospitable  it  was  painful.  Re- 
member, I  had  not  spoken  to  an  educated  white 
woman  since  October  last ;  and  then  suddenly  to 
be  transported  into  the  midst  of  a  "nice"  family 

—  the  experience  was  overwhelming.  Such  things 
would  be  alright  and  natural,  if  you  hadn't  all 
the  time  hid  in  the  back  of  your  mind  that  in  a 
few  days  you  would  be  "out  there"  again.     And 


220       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

all  at  once  I  used  to  think  of  you,  and  what  we 
might  do,  if  only  I  was  back  —  and  then  again, 
I  would  wish  I  hadn't  come.  No!  "Leave"  is 
not  all  it  is  said  to  mean.  The  old  lady  was  very 
worried.  She  was  the  first  woman  I  have  been 
in  touch  with,  who  was  afraid  for  some  one  loved 
out  here,  and  I  can  see  it  is  no  cinch  sitting  at 
home.  I  think  it  brought  you  and  me  a  little 
closer.  I  could  see  your  view.  ...  If  they 
would  conscript  wealth,  property,  as  well  as  men, 
we  wouldn't  need  the  men.  The  war  would  stop, 
tout  suit. 

24  June,  '17. 
My  ownest  Lai,  — 

I  seem  just  now  to  have  so  much  to  tell  you 
that  I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  As  you 
know,  we  are  on  rest,  and  altogether  having  a 
ripping  time  —  only  a  little  drill  or  lectures  on 
specialty  stuff  in  the  mornings,  the  rest  of  the 
day  off.  There  is  a  lake  close  at  hand,  though 
not  a  lake  similar  to  yours.  I  mean  there  are 
no  trimmings,  no  boats  or  anything;  it's  just  a 
small  French  village  in  the  mining  district,  but 
all  the  surrounding  country  is  glorious,  never- 
theless, and  there  are  no  stray  shells  —  most 
important  feature  of  all.  All  the  boys  are  en- 
joying things  finely.  .  .  . 

Everything  just  now  is  devoted  to  sports  — 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  221 

Inter-Battn.,  Inter-Brigade,  Inter-Division.  The 
finals  were  all  in  our  grand  sports  day  yesterday. 
Of  course,  every  one  is  a  most  enthusiastic  booster 
for  his  Battn.,  and  it's  all  been  most  exciting. 

It  took  place  at  this  very  village  where  I've 
been  all  winter.  When  I  got  there,  the  village 
was  a  mass  of  men  all  on  holiday;  every  Battn. 
came  to  cheer  its  men  in  one  event  or  another; 
but  ours  mainly  to  get  that  ball  game.  It  was 
great,  just  like  a  big  Sports  at  home,  only  there 
were  no  girls  or  women ;  the  field  was  surrounded 
with  trees,  an  ideal  place.  All  the  big  brass  hats 
and  every  one  was  there,  and  out  for  a  good 
time,  and  I  sure  did  enjoy  it.  The  (page  cut  by 
censor)  know  how  to  stage-manage  a  thing  of 
this  sort,  and  they  went  the  whole  hog,  even  to 
having  the  theatrical  bunch  dress  as  girls  and 
stroll  around  with  sunshades.  Well,  we  won  the 
ball  game.  We  didn't  do  much  in  the  running 
races ;  our  Battn.  doesn't  run,  we  stand  fast ! ! ! 
But  we  won  the  heavyweight  boxing,  and  the 
tug  of  war. 

All  the  time  I  was  running  into  fellows  I  knew. 
It  was  a  thoroughly  jolly  enjoyable  day.  I 
wished  a  hundred  times  you  had  been  with  me. 
I  guess  there  will  be  a  day  or  two  like  that, 
though  when  the  big  bunch  go  back  to  Canada; 
and  then  we'll  see  it  all,  together  —  because 
I'm  coming  home  alright.  I'm  getting  some  of 
your  optimism. 


%%%       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Later. 

Poor  old  Lai !  I  haven't  finished  laughing  yet 
at  your  idea  of  a  good  war  story.  .  .  .  But  for 
your  information,  as  it  directly  concerns  my  own 
job,  stretcher  bearers  don't  carry  morphine ;  they 
carry  —  I  carry  —  bandages,  dressings  (shell  and 
field),  iodine  which  I  slash  liberally  on  every 
wound,  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  sometimes  a  little 
sal  volatile.  That's  all.  .  .  .  Imagine,  before 
going  over  the  bags,  sitting  in  a  dugout  writing 
a  lot  of  trash,  and  licking  up  the  envelope.  Pre- 
cious lot  of  dugouts  a  private  is  ever  allowed  in ! 
Moreover,  you  don't  take  biscuit  boxes  in  the 
line;  they  go  up  in  sandbags.  And  taking  a 
blanket  over  the  top  is  too  funny.  If  you  want 
to  read  front-line  stuff,  read  Ian  Hay  who  has 
been  there  —  or,  for  a  change,  the  personal  ex- 
periences of  Mrs.  R.  A.  L.'s  husband.  By  the 
way,  I  see  you  like  my  descriptions.  I'm  glad; 
that's  why  I  write  'em;  and  if  you  didn't,  it 
wouldn't  be  any  fun.  (Will  you  keep  them  for 
Bill  when  she  grows  up?)  I'm  just  beginning  to 
get  used  to  things  here  again;  the  awful  con- 
trasts of  home  life  and  this  are  beginning  to 
fade  from  my  mind.  Luckily,  I  didn't  have  to 
make  the  jump  from  England  right  into  the  line, 
but  shall  reach  there  by  easy  stages,  so  to  speak. 
It  isn't  really  bad  here  at  all;  in  fact,  it's  just 
heaven  after  the  line.     But  compared  with  life 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  223 

amongst  equals  and  with  freedom  —  of  course 
it's  awful. 

I  know  the  present  is  rotten  for  you,  dear,  in 
every  way;  but  we  must  "carry  on."  It's  all 
we  can  do.  So  I'll  be  where  I  won't  have  time 
to  think  of  anything  but  life  and  death,  eating 
and  drinking  to  live,  and  being  dry  and  warm 

—  just  an  animal  —  a  hunted  animal.  We  all 
have  our  worries.  Remember  only  to  be  alive 
is  something  to  thank  God  for. 

The  photographs  of  you  are  simply  splendid. 
I  fell  in  love  with  you  all  over  again.  You  are 
the  "Ideal",  the  only  one,  and  will  be  till  I  die 

—  and  I  hope  afterwards.  Remember  hard  — 
always  —  that,  if  I  should  happen  to  have  to 
pay  the  sacrifice,  my  last  thought  will,  my  very 
last  one  will,  be  loving  you  and  hoping  that  the 
rest  of  your  life  is  to  be  happy.  Don't  take  this 
in  a  morbid  spirit.  I  don't  mean  it  that  way  at 
all.  Already  I  have  experienced  moments  which 
I  was  sure  were  "the"  one.  It  wasn't,  as  it 
happened,  but  I  was  thinking  of  you  hard.  And 
I  repeat  my  love  will  go  out  to  you  then,  as  it 
does  now  when  I  am  alive  and  gloriously  well. 

It  is  because  I  love  you  so,  and  want  our  home 
so  much,  that  I  want  to  get  through  with  this 
thing  so  badly. 

You  are  worried  about  the  political  point  of 
things,  the  "human"  view,  the  reasons.  I  am 
concerned  alone  as  to  whether  we  can  manage 


224       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

to  pull  through,  while  doing  the  day's  work.  I 
have  done  my  "day's  work"  here  satisfactorily; 
I  know  that.  I  have  heard  from  several  sources 
that  I  have  "made  good."  It  is  enough.  All 
we  want  now  is  for  it  to  end  —  and  begin  our 
lives  again ;  isn't  it  ? 

25  June,  '17. 

.  .  .  We  are  trying  to  take  the  Americans 
seriously.  I  see  their  war  loan  was  over-sub- 
scribed. Moreover,  many  things  we  read  show 
they  mean  business.  I  see  we  are  not  to  have 
them  on  our  front.  We  had  heard  that  they 
would  work  with  the  Canucks ;  however,  I  guess 
the  French  need  them  most.  If  only  they  could 
get  here  this  year !  But  I  guess  it's  impossible. 
I  hope  they  can  get  that  big  bunch  of  planes 
over  that  they  talk  of ;  they  would  be  invaluable. 
Isn't  it  amazing  Fritz  doesn't  see,  and  realize? 
I  can't  make  it  out  at  all. 

I  bet  the  Yanks  show  the  English  and  Canadians 
how  to  handle  the  social  end  of  things  for  their 
men.  They'll  make  mistakes,  of  course;  but 
you  can't  beat  'em  at  anything  I've  seen  yet, 
when  they  go  in  for  it  thoroughly,  and  now  it's 
apparent  they  mean  this,  mean  to  go  the  whole 
hog,  good  luck  to  'em !  I  suppose  internal 
affairs  must  be  the  very  devil  for  those  in  au- 
thority to  handle.  There  again  they'll  win  out. 
They  have  a  rough  and  ready  way  of  dealing 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  %25 

with  trouble  which  is  barbaric,  maybe,  but 
effective;  and  you  can't  go  to  war  with  kid 
gloves  on. 

I  was  in  Blighty  when  the  big  scrap  came  off 
that  straightened  the  Salient ;  some  show  I  guess 
it  must  have  been,  too.  Of  course,  I  knew  before- 
hand all  about  it,  so  it  wasn't  a  surprise.  I'd 
like  to  see  the  crater.  Poor  old  Heinie !  And 
the  worst  is  yet  to  come.  His  line  must  break 
soon,  I  firmly  believe;  though  that  there  will 
be  a  rout  or  general  clean-up  I  very  much  doubt. 
It's  the  time  it  takes  to  bring  guns  up  that  holds 
advance  back.  The  difficulty  is  to  keep  the  in- 
fantry from  advancing  too  far. 

29  June,  '17. 

My  dearest  Lai :  — 

Well,  the  inspection  came  off  as  appointed. 
We  were  lucky  in  having  it  come  early.  Every 
one  had  prayed  earnestly  for  rain ;  but  apparently 
in  vain,  as  the  weather  was  lovely.  I  can  forgive 
our  Colonel  for  getting  so  particular  and  anxious 
beforehand;  he  evidently  knew  his  man.  I  sup- 
pose the  proper  word  to  describe  it  would  be 
thorough.  We  had  other  names  for  it,  though. 
He  examined  odd  links  on  the  chains  of  the 
transport  harness;  dived  underneath  one  of  the 
water  carts  to  fetch  out  a  rifle  in  a  case,  a  rifle 
which  is  never  used  (he  found  it  clean) ;  swooped 
on  an  odd  man  here  and  there  and  gave  his  rifle 


226       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

the  going  over  as  if  he  was  buying  a  priceless 
diamond,  strolled  innocently  past  a  platoon  and 
gave  the  order  "Gas/"  (which  means  they  had 
to  get  their  helmets  out  and  on  in  a  given  number 
of  seconds).     Oh  !   he  was  thorough,  alright. 

When  it  was  our  turn,  he  wanted  to  know  how 
many  casualties  we'd  had  among  our  number  in 
the  big  show  on  the  9th  April ;  said  the  number 
was  too  many;  wanted  to  know  just  what  was 
in  our  medical  bags,  and  many  other  things. 
Finally,  to  every  one's  utter  relief,  he  beat  it, 
to  inflict  himself  on  another  Batt'n  in  the  Bgd. 
We  hear  he  was  pleased.  So  were  we  —  when 
he  went.  And,  just  to  spite  him,  we  haven't 
polished  a  button  for  a  whole  twenty-four  hours. 
He  knew  his  job,  though;  you  must  hand  him 
that. 

Ever  since,  it's  rained  like  the  devil.  Last 
night,  I  was  thinking  how  impossible  it  is  for  an 
outsider  to  realize  the  meaning  of  life  as  it  really 
is  in  the  line.  Those  new  trenches  must  be  full 
of  water,  the  life  must  be  horrible  in  the  extreme ; 
yet  we,  who  are  just  now  under  a  roof,  hardly 
think  of  it.  Only  a  few  —  a  very  few  —  days 
separate  us  from  it;  yet  you  never  hear  a  word 
mentioned  on  the  subject.  If  we  who  know 
don't  bother  to  think,  how  can  you  expect  people 
at  home  to  realize,  who  have  never  seen  or  ever 
suffered  like  discomforts?  It's  a  thought  worth 
pondering  over. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  227 

Sunday  morning  early,  1  July,  *17. 
My  ownest  Kiddie,  — 

Tomorrow  we  parti  for  the  trenches  once  more, 
and  today  we  shall  be  decidedly  busy.  It's 
Sunday,  and  we  have  an  important  Church 
Parade  —  a  Brigade  parade  —  and  who  do  you 
think  is  to  be  there?  The  "Dook."  Quite  like 
old  Canadian  times  again.  I  didn't  know  he  was 
in  France.  Packing  up  will  not  take  long;  but, 
just  the  same,  it  is  always  a  rush.  There  is  none 
of  that  ceremonial  regimental  stuff  about  it; 
you  pack  it  how  you  like,  ease  and  convenience 
alone  count.  .  .  . 

The  weather  is  rather  cold  and  wet,  and  we'll 
miss  the  roof  overhead  pretty  badly,  I  guess. 
Fortunately  I  didn't  ditch  my  sweater  during  the 
hot  weather,  as  every  one  else  did. 

You  will  bear  the  date  in  mind,  and  remember 
the  news  of  this  time  when  you  get  this.  Things 
are  stirring  in  our  section  with  a  vengeance; 
the  guns  are  going  incessantly.  ...  It  is  just 
possible  we  shall  be  left  more  or  less  alone  in 
the  front  line,  Heinie  being  more  concerned  about 
the  guns  hindering  his  retreat. 

I  wonder  how  they  are  going  to  explain  the 
loss  to  the  rank  and  file  in  Germany.  Human 
nature  is  pretty  much  the  same  all  over,  and  it 
is  —  must  be,  in  fact  —  that  the  soldier  cannot 
feel  cheerful  about  these  continual  retreats,  even 


228       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

if  he  implicitly  believes  that  they  are  "according 
to  plan."  I  know  how  we  should  feel,  and  it 
would  not  be  good,  and  it  would  not  help  us  to 
"carry  on."  I  have  been  in  this  sector  since 
the  beginning  of  April,  and  I  know  that  we  — 
the  guns  and  ourselves  —  have  made  it  absolutely 
impossible  for  human  beings  to  stay  where  they 
were.  The^  true  facts  of  the  evacuation  —  what- 
ever will  be  said  (I  am  writing  before  the  fall) 
—  are  that  the  enemy  has  been  and  is  outclassed 
in  every  branch  of  war.  In  plain  words,  he  is 
retreating  because  he  has  to.  It  is  slow  work, 
must  of  necessity  be;  but  humans  cannot  stand 
this  kind  of  thing  for  ever,  and  I  look  for  a  break, 
a  bad  break,  somewhere  in  the  line  before  October. 
If  the  Germans  haven't  realized  by  then  how 
foolishly  they  are  trusting  in  a  broken  reed,  then 
we  must  sit  down  and  endure  another  winter. 
The  thing  that  never  fails  to  be  amazing  to  me 
is  that  the  German  people  cannot  see  things  as 
they  are.  However,  I'm  not  very  interested  in 
the  larger  aspect  of  the  war.  To  me,  it  amounts 
to  whether  I  have  enough  dry  pairs  of  socks  for 
the  wet  trenches  I  shall  so  soon  be  in ;  if  he  will 
shell  us  heavily ;  if  we  shall  be  within  his  trench 
mortar  zone  (very  important  this  —  his  "sausage" 
is  a  fearful  thing) ;  how  far  the  front  line  is  from 
the  jumping-off  place  where  you  store  your 
packs ;  will  it  be  possible  to  get  bread  and  fresh 
meat  in  to  us?    How  far  will  we  have  to  go  for 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  229 

water,  how  many  days  will  constitute  a  trip 
"in",  and  —  never  expressed,  but  half  thought 
of  in  the  back  of  the  brain  —  will  this  be  my 
Waterloo  trip?  What  the  politicians  are  doing, 
and  the  General  Staff  planning  don't  interest  us 
for  a  second. 

Afternoon,  1  July,  '17. 

The  parade  this  morning  was  quite  a  surprise 
to  me.  Apparently  it's  Dominion  Day  —  no  one 
knew  —  and  when  the  Batt'ns  of  the  Brigade 
had  formed  a  square  in  a  pretty  field  surrounded 
with  trees,  motor  cars  came  up  and  discharged 
about  all  the  brass  hats  in  France,  including  the 
Commander  of  the  First  British  Army  himself 
(the  Canadians  are  attached  to  the  First  Army). 
Note  that  ours  of  all  the  Canadians  in  France, 
was  the  Bgd.  chosen  for  him  to  attend.  We  even 
had  special  "programmes"  printed,  one  of  which 
I  enclose  as  another  souvenir.  Photographs  and 
moving  pictures  were  taken,  and  our  fastest  and 
latest  type  aeroplanes  made  rings  round  the 
affair  in  formation,  in  case  Fritz  should  happen 
to  take  a  look  over.  The  band  supplied  the 
music.  We  like  our  own  band;  but  it  doesn't 
compare  with  theirs. 

It  was  impressive  and  interesting.  The  "Big 
Gun"  made  a  speech  in  which  he  said  the  Vimy 
Show  and  later  the  (censored)  one  had  plainly 
shown  us  that  Fritz   was  getting  less  inclined 


230       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

to  put  up  a  stiff  fight  when  we  meant  real 
business  —  he  didn't  tell  us  when  the  war  was 
to  end. 

During  the  "rest",  the  specialty  training  — 
bombers,  machine  gunners,  rifles,  grenade  men, 
etc.  have  worked  on  a  competition  basis  for 
prizes  —  and  after  the  parade  the  Colonel  pre- 
sented the  prizes.  There  were  eight  prizes  for 
the  Batt'n,  and  notice  this  —  "B"  Co.  took  five 
of  them.  .  .  . 

All  the  games  and  sports  stuff  and  putting 
everything  on  a  competition  line  is  good  in  every 
way,  makes  the  fellows  keen,  sets  up  friendly 
rivalry,  and  is  interesting  for  every  one.  The 
rest  has  undoubtedly  been  a  great  success.  The 
only  kick  the  fellows  have  is  that  there  were 
only  two  pays  of  fifteen  francs  each.  I  think 
that  rotten  myself ;  they  could  easily  have  slipped 
in  one  more,  or  even  two. 

Later. 

They  have  recently  got  more  particular  about 
wearing  your  identification  discs  in  the  proper 
place,  namely  round  your  neck.  You  have  two 
out  here,  a  red,  and  a  green.  One  is  buried 
with  you,  the  other  —  I  dunno'  what  becomes 
of  it.  I've  always  carried  mine  in  my  pocket 
—  though  I  wear  a  little  medal  affair  on  a  chain 
round  my  wrist.  At  present,  I  am  using  a  piece 
of  old  string  off  a  parcel  for  the  two  round  my 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  231 

neck ;  but  if  you  like  to  send  me  a  nice  piece 
of  silk  cord,  strong  enough  not  to  break,  and 
durable  enough  not  to  object  to  soap  and  water, 
yet  pretty  enough  to  remind  me  of  Ihings  "nice", 
I'd  be  tickled  to  wear  it. 

They  have  this  moment  come  for  our  one 
blanket  —  sure  sign  of  a  move.  A  cold  night 
on  hard  bricks  tonight ;  better  than  mud,  though. 

I  have  really  got  hold  of  a  Saturday  Post  with 
a  yarn  by  Gardner  in  it.  Reading  matter  has 
been  terribly  scarce  here  all  the  time,  and  to 
have  a  Post  is  to  be  in  real  luck  —  though  some- 
how looking  at  the  ads  and  things  always  makes 
me  homesick.  .  .  .  It's  all  so  different,  like  going 
on  leave ;  the  fact  that  people  have  comforts  and 
luxuries,  can  he  free,  hits  you  like  the  concussion 
of  a  shell.  I  don't  suppose  you'll  understand  this ; 
but  at  times,  when  things  are  quiet,  like  just  before 
going  to  sleep  or  dozing  the  day  through  in  a  funk 
hole,  my  mind  automatically  flies  to  you,  and 
times  we  have  had  together,  and  what  might  be  — 
if.  Always  —  no  matter  if  it  occurs  a  hundred 
times  —  I  hastily  push  the  thoughts  away  from  me, 
feverishly  think  of  something  else;  but  it  never 
really  goes.  It  always  stays  sort  of  behind  in  my 
brain,  and  worries  me  and  keeps  me  awake.  The 
fact  is,  I  think  of  you  as  little  as  I  can.  I  dare 
not  give  myself  the  luxury  of  it;  things  that  I 
see  and  do,  I  immediately  arrange  to  tell  you  of 
in  the  only  way  I  can  —  like  this. 


232       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

"Somewhere  else",  3  July,  '17. 

How  I  am  to  get  this  mailed,  I  dunno' ;  but 
mailed  it  is  going  to  be.  Yesterday  we  moved 
as  arranged,  and  after  a  somewhat  hard  march. 
It  would  have  been  easy,  had  we  not  run  into  a 
road  closed  for  troops  "owing  to  being  under 
enemy  observation"  and  had  to  go  some  miles 
round.  There  are  crops  back  there,  every  last 
inch  square  growing  something,  and  it  is  not 
permitted  to  go  shell-torn  in  the  usual  way.  In 
the  centre  is  the  remains  of  a  huge  chateau,  one 
of  the  biggest  I've  seen.  A  whole  Batt'n  can 
—  4oes  —  billet  in  the  stables  and  grooms'  quar- 
ters. .  .  . 

Last  night,  I  talked  to  a  fellow  who  had  been 
up  there.  This  fellow  said  we  were  all  in  holes, 
not  connected  at  all,  in  the  suburbs  of  the  "big 
burg" ;  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep  men  there 
more  than  twenty-four  hours,  as  they  couldn't 
get  supplies  in  to  'em.  That  all  was  going  well, 
we  were  advancing;  but  it  was  hand  to  hand 
stuff,  and  bucking  machine  guns,  and  Heinie  was 
standing  good. 

How  the  devil  am  I  going  to  get  my  wounded 
out?  .  .  . 

Well,  tonight  we'll  hear  again  the  sound  which 
no  one  has  ever  described  correctly,  but  which 
reminds  me  of  a  train  coming  towards  you,  as 
much  as  anything;    and  then,  as  we  advance 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  233 

closer  up,  a  thousand  woodpeckers  will  seem  to 
be  digging  steel  beaks  into  iron.  Both  are  bad, 
but  I  think  I  prefer  the  machine  guns;  they 
give  you  such  nice  aseptic  "Blightys." 

I  have  no  "hunches"  again  this  trip.  Young 
F.  says  he  thinks  a  man  who  is  going  to  be  killed 
gets  a  hunch.     I  dunno'.     We  shall  see. 

I  am  better  equipped,  this  trip,  with  bandages 
and  supplies  than  I  have  ever  been,  and  I  am 
glad,  as  I  think  I  shall  need  'em.  Also  I  am 
comforted  to  know  I  have  young  F.  as  my  "under- 
study." The  rest  is,  as  you've  said  once,  "on 
the  knees  of  the  gods."  .  .  . 

Well  —  dearest  —  au  revoir.  It  isn't  good  bye, 
even  for  more  than  a  day.  I'll  write  something 
up  there,  they  can't  do  much  scrapping  in  the 
daytime,  I  expect. 

Keep  as  cheery  these  next  months  as  you  know 
how  —  and  you  do  know  how  if  you  try.  .  .  . 

Kiss  Billie  —  for  me  —  many  times. 

8  July,  '17. 
My  Dearest  Lai :  — 

I  have  just  been  lying  here  soliloquizing  on 
the  curious  ways  some  things  work  out  in  life, 
and  how  the  devil  it  can  be  possible  that  all  is 
working  out  for  the  best  in  this  big  world-clean- 
ing. In  my  platoon  is  a  human  soul  sent  up 
from  the  Two  Hundred  and  Umpty  something 


£S4       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Batt'n,  who  is  just  —  nothing.  No  brains,  no 
evil,  no  physique,  no  anything  —  just  half  born. 
Of  course,  nevertheless  in  a  trench,  worse  —  a 
danger  to  others.  In  a  recent  lecture  in  which 
the  lecturer  referred  to  the  enemy  always  as  the 
Boshe,  he  asked  what  a  Boshe  was !  A  job  is 
open  for  a  man  to  look  after  a  graveyard  behind 
the  lines.  He  is  given  it,  a  heaven-sent  chance 
to  strike  him  off  the  strength  of  the  Batt'n. 
Moreover,  you  can't  quarrel  with  the  action. 
It  is  obviously  correct.  Yet  —  and  yet  —  think ! 
To  be  a  degenerate  is  lucky.  He  will  see  his 
home  in  Vancouver;  he  will  go  home  to  all  that 
home  means,  and  no  doubt  talk  largely  of  his 
experience  —  he  made  one  trip  "in";  and  the 
man  who  is  scrupulous  to  do  his  bit  conscientiously, 
is  physically  fit,  in  other  words  a  good  man  and  a 
good  citizen,  he  is  the  one  chosen  for  the  hardest 
part,  his  the  life  needed  to  pay.  It  won't  bear 
thinking  about. 

Think,  all  my  life  I  have  taken,  always  taken ; 
never  given.  And  now  I  must  give,  give  all,  all 
the  time ;  and  there  is  no  quitting.  It  is  a  joke, 
drat  it,  and  a  good  one. 

...  I  have  read  all  the  best  descriptive  writers 
on  the  front-line  stuff;  but  not  one  of  'em  has 
ever  given  a  description  of  trench  life  as  it  is. 
They  confine  themselves  to  the  spectacular  deeds  : 
the  attacks  over  the  top ;  and  weird  stunts  where 
men  win  medals.     That  isn't  this  war  at  all; 


W  THE  TRENCHES  £35 

those  things  are  all  easy,  as  men  do  them  when 
keyed  up  to  the  proper  pitch.  All  those  things 
are  great  events  in  the  history  of  a  Batt'n.  For 
instance,  my  Batt'n  only  went  over  at  the 
Somme,  and  has  only  pulled  one  stunt  since : 
namely,  at  Vimy  on  April  9th.  Yet  when  you 
hear  the  boys  talking  together  of  the  bad  times, 
those  things  are  not  mentioned;  because  they 
were  not  the  bad  times.     They  were  easy. 

The  newspapers  ring  with  the  wonder  of  the 
Vimy  achievement,  yet  I  haven't  heard  one  say 
a  word  about  our  trip  in  May,  when  we  held 
the  line  just  by  sitting,  day  after  day  and  night 
after  night,  getting  killed  without  firing  a  shot 
—  just  holding  on.  It  wasn't  spectacular;  yet 
that  was  typical  of  the  whole  war.  That's  what 
it  is;  the  other  things  are  episodes,  rare  ones, 
and  the  correspondents  make  the  people  imagine 
that  is  what  makes  their  boys'  lives  at  the  front. 

I  remember  on  the  day  and  the  subsequent 
days  that  we  were  taking  Vimy  and  the  plain 
beyond,  watching  the  ammunition  and  water 
going  up  to  the  boys  as  they  advanced.  Pre- 
viously, vast  stores  of  trench-mortar  and  machine- 
gun  ammunition  had  been  stored,  together  with 
water  in  gasoline  cans,  in  a  cave  only  a  few  yards 
from  what  was  then  Fritz's  front  line.  Fritz 
was  quite  wise  to  this  cave,  and  guessed  the  use 
to  which  it  was  being  put,  so  a  battery  of  heavies 
was  put  on  to  shell  round  the  entrance,  day  and 


236       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

night.  The  supplies  were  brought  up  and  dumped 
in  a  heap  near  the  mouth,  and  men  with  mules 
loaded  and  took  them  away,  marching  along 
right  into  the  barrage  which  kept  going  per- 
petually further  up,  with  the  idea  of  stopping 
just  this  very  thing. 

The  weather  was  awful;  the  ground  was 
covered  with  snow;  all  around  the  mouth  of 
the  cave  lay  dead  men,  and  more  along  by  the 
dump,  there  being  no  time  to  move  them.  The 
string  of  mules  would  come  up,  one  man  to  one 
mule,  load  up  hurriedly  at  the  dump,  and  file 
away  into  the  row  of  black  spouting  craters 
which  was  the  5.9  barrage  put  up  by  Fritz. 
In  time,  they  would  come  back  through  the 
barrage  again  for  another  load.  The  officer 
would  count  them,  and  say  nothing,  and  every 
now  and  then  go  into  the  cave  and  telephone 
for  new  mules  and  new  men. 

This  went  on  night  and  day  —  more  in  the 
night  —  for  three  days  without  ceasing.  I  know, 
because  I  carried  the  stuff  from  the  cave  to  the 
dump,  and  every  trip  across  that  open  strip  of 
ground  was  an  adventure. 

Yesterday,  I  was  reading  an  account  of 
Vimy  in  Canada.  He  described  it  more  or  less 
accurately,  missing,  of  course,  the  heart  of  the 
thing,  the  little  things,  as  they  all  do.  One 
passage  he  wrote  from  the  Ridge,  looking  at  the 
plain  below,  and   casually  mentioned  "I  saw  a 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  237 

pretty  bit  of  shelling"  (by  Fritz)  "on  a  railway 
culvert."  Yes,  very  pretty.  There  is  a  railroad 
embankment  there  which  once  hid  his  big  how- 
itzers. Now,  however,  instead  of  strengthening 
it,  he  spends  many  shells  trying  to  break  it  up. 
And  there  is  a  culvert  which  received  some 
"pretty  shelling"  twice.  On  two  separate  trips 
in,  I  have  occupied  the  funk  hole  nearest  to  that 
culvert,  once  on  one  side  and  once  on  the  other. 
I  have  seen  seven  men  knocked  out  with  one 
shell  there  —  truly  "pretty  shelling."  I  have 
spent  in  all  eight  days  and  eight  nights  by  that 
culvert,  and  run  under  it  countless  times.  Not 
until  some  one  can  write  and  tell  people  what  it 
means ;  to  sit  or  crouch  —  or  squirm  —  around 
in  one  place  for  days,  under  continuous  fire,  with- 
out being  able  to  go  away,  will  you  people  at 
home  know  the  war  as  it  is.  But  —  maybe  it's 
as  well  they  don't  know.  .  .  .  Sometimes  the 
correspondents  are  really  amusing,  —  as  when 
they  have  us  "laughing  like  schoolboys,  before 
going  on  a  raid",  and  things  like  that.  I  may 
be  wrong;  but  I  don't  think  any  one  has  ever 
seen  one  of  the  paper ,  men  in  the  actual  front 
line.  And  I  have  yet  to  see  any  man  laugh, 
while  there.  The  atmosphere  is  tense  with 
something  quite  different;  a  raid  or  patrol  is 
gone  on  with  the  seriousness  which  facing  a  quick 
death  entitles  it  to.  Men  don't  laugh  in  the 
front  line,  ever.     They  "grouch"  —  a  lot  —  about 


2S8       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

the  food,  the  shortage  of  water,  the  weather,  the 
insects,  and  many  things  besides.  They  kick 
like  hell  when  our  guns  open  up  from  behind  on 
Fritz's  line.  Yes,  I  mean  that.  I  guess  you'll 
wonder  why  that  makes  us  sore  but  it  does  — 
damnably.  Because  —  Fritz  will  retaliate.  He 
may  suspect  a  raid.  If  so,  up  goes  his  S.O.S. 
amongst  all  the  other  flares,  and  down  comes  a 
barrage  of  heavies.  Ours  increase,  the  air  throb- 
bing and  alive  with  the  screams  and  hisses  of 
different  calibre  shells,  punctuated  with  the 
harsh  tapping  of  hundreds  of  machine  guns 
sweeping  the  open.  It  dies  down  a  little,  then 
increases  worse  than  ever,  finally  to  die  down 
for  good,  when  all  goes  on  just  the  same  —  only 
that  tense,  whispering  sensation  in  the  air  which 
is  there  all  night,  every  night.  For  an  hour  or 
so,  out  of  the  dark,  parties  of  four  go  down  the 
trench,  muttering  and  swearing,  carrying  some- 
thing—  "Look  out  there  —  gangway  for  a 
stretcher."  The  dead  stay  where  they  are, 
with  a  rubber  sheet  or  an  old  sandbag,  to  cover 
their  faces.  Later,  maybe  that  night  or  the 
next,  a  fatigue  party  will  climb  over  the  parados 
and  scratch  a  grave  a  few  yards  from  the  trench, 
cursing  the  flares,  and  flopping,  as  Fritz  plays 
a  machine  gun  casually,  just  on  the  off  chance, 
all  along  the  ground  behind,  as  a  man  might 
play  a  hose  on  a  lawn. 

These   graves   are   not   marked.     How   could 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  239 

they  be  ?  Some  one  takes  all  the  letters  and 
things  out  of  the  pockets ;  eventually,  if  the 
man  who  has  them  doesn't  get  blown  to  pieces, 
they  reach  the  Quartermaster,  who  sends  them 
home.  Some  one  writes  a  letter,  and  that's  all. 
No  advance,  no  spectacular  raid,  not  even  re- 
pelling an  attack.  So  many  dead  Heinies,  so 
many  dead  Britishers.  And  so  she  goes.  And 
such  is  "a  trip  in." 

Next  day,  9  July,  '17. 

I  put  in  a  most  delicious  night,  we  pulled  down 
our  tarpaulin  cover  and  made  a  proper  "bivvy" 
out  of  it;  banked  up  the  sides  and  covered  the 
ends,  fifteen  of  us.  Most  of  us  had  parcels. 
No  one  had  candles,  though;  but  I  came  along 
with  those.  Some  one  had  cafS  au  lait.  We  made 
a  little  cooker.  (I'm  an  expert,  now,  turning 
a  bully  beef  can,  a  bit  of  sandbag,  and  a  candle 
into  a  cooking  stove.  I  used  them  right  in  the 
front  line.)  Every  one  had  a  cake,  and  cigar- 
ettes, and  all;  we  were  a  happy  bunch.  I  guess 
the  front-line  boys  will  make  the  closest  fraternity 
ever  seen,  after  the  war;  you  get  to  know  a 
fellow  through  and  through  in  half  an  hour. 
But  it  is  just  as  I  thought :  only  the  men  who 
go  in  and  actually  do  the  scrapping  know  any- 
thing of  the  war.  Any  one  can  work ;  but  when 
you  work,  and  while  working  every  second  stand 
a   chance   of    a    sudden    death,    it's    that    that 


240       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

seems  to  count,  and  I  guess  it's  only  right  it 
should.  Today  we  have  parades,  parades,  try- 
ing to  get  the  mud  off :  the  first  at  ten,  another 
at  two.  It  takes  two  or  three  days  to  get  the 
mud  off. 

It's  glorious  sunshiny  weather.  This  after- 
noon, there  may  be  a  pay  parade.  Up  the  line 
there  is  no  regular  pay-day;  you  may  get  three 
a  month,  you  may  get  only  one.  There  is  no 
town  here ;  but  Y.M.  tents  and  our  own  canteen, 
where  you  can  get  canned  goods.  The  boys 
generally  spend  the  whole  works  at  once,  and 
have  one  good  feed.  I  guess  it's  the  only 
way.  .  .  . 

The  standard  of  duty,  conscientious  duty  in 
the  line,  at  any  rate  in  this  Battn.  is  very  high. 
I  told  you  I  was  a  stretcher  bearer.  The  vacancy 
occurred  in  the  big  scrap  Easter  Monday.  A 
fellow  called  C,  an  original  man,  through  all  the 
scraps  had  the  place  I  now  fill.  It  is  not  a  sine- 
cure, but  its  dangers  and  hardships  are  lifted 
in  a  different  plane  from  mere  work. 

When  my  Company  took  its  objective  that 
day  —  the  point  was  the  brim  of  a  ridge  —  they 
went  a  few  yards  too  far.  The  Bosch  was  run- 
ning, and  they  followed.  C.  had  been  very  busy 
up  till  then ;  but  his  big  effort  was  to  come  over 
the  brow.  The  Germans  had  some  batteries  — 
what  we  call  whizz-bang  guns  (about  fifteen 
pounders).     These  were  not  all  out  of  action; 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  241 

but  when  the  gunners  saw  our  boys  coming 
over  the  edge  they  saw  all  was  up,  and  decided 
to  die  game;  so,  instead  of  shooting  over  away 
back,  they  turned  the  guns  direct  at  a  few  yards' 
range  pointblank  on  our  boys.  Many  were  hit. 
It  was  "Stretcher  Bearer  on  the  double!"  from 
point  to  point.  Poor  C.  did  what  he  could;  he 
dressed  a  few.  It  was  finished,  anyway;  no 
one  could  live,  and  he  was  killed.  He  might 
have  got  a  medal !  He  did  good  work  in  the 
Somme,  too.  One  or  two  very  brave  acts  don't 
win  medals  now;  consistent  good  work,  backed 
by  a  conspicuous  act,  may. 

It's  all  in  the  game.  There  is  no  time  for 
reports.  You  just  hear,  "C.  did  good  work"; 
that's  all.  Every  day,  it  is  some  one.  A  man 
cannot  hesitate  when  he  sees  to  do  a  thing  is 
certain  death;  it  is  his  luck,  he  must  do  it,  and 
do  it  on  the  run.  My  only  fear  is  I  may  hesitate 
a  second.  I  hope  not,  a  thousand  times.  No 
one  is  safe.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  K.  has  made  himself  understand  that  the 
shell  you  hear  coming  is  not  yours,  because  the 
shell  is  ahead  of  the  noise.  I  haven't  got  this 
yet,  though  I  have  tried  hard.  This  is  a  good 
place  to  find  out  about  yourself.  I  know  that  I 
am  not  naturally  brave;  in  fact,  far  from  it. 
But  there  is  one  thing  I  am  counting  on  to  help 
me  out :  I  cannot  naturally  see  any  one  suffer 
pain  and  not  go  out  to  give  a  hand,  at  least  not 


242       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

in  this,  so  I  am  hoping  I  shan't  make  any  bad 
breaks.  .  .  . 

Did  I  tell  you  I  broke  the  nice  pipe;  the 
amber  was  bound  to  go  out  here  sooner  or  later. 
I  found  another  on  "The  Ridge"  though,  so  I 
am  not  without;  and,  as  I  write,  laid  down  in 
my  "Bivvy",  I  am  smoking  your  Imperial. 
Another  thing !  don't  send  any  more  socks.  It's 
the  limit,  the  way  the  Daughters  of  the  Empire 
of  B.C.  and  other  B.C.  outfits  send  socks  to  this 
Batt'n.  I  have  a  lovely  thick  snow  white  pair  on 
right  now.  We  even  get  clean  ones  right  up  in 
the  front  line  —  nearly  a  pair  a  day.  Our  feet 
are  considered  very  important,  and  whale  oil 
has  to  be  rubbed  in  frequently ;  an  officer  stands 
over  you  while  you  do  it. 

Plain  chocolate,  cakes,  anything  sweet  is  what 
we  love.  The  two  parcels  I  got  were  perfect. 
I  could  kiss  you  very  heartily  for  'em. 

.  .  .  Dearie,  you  must  know  that  I  am  with 
you  and  Billie  every  hour  of  every  day.  You  are 
never  from  my  thoughts.  I  cannot  write  of  it 
much,  not  now,  but  you  must  know  it  is  there. 

12  July,  '17. 

My  dearest  Lai,  — 

The  time  here  is  actually  beginning  to  hang 
heavily.  Though  there  is  a  whole  battalion  here 
made  up  of  the  men  who  have  been  left  "out" 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  243 

for  the  trip  —  so  many  for  each  —  there  is  nothing 
to  do.  We  are  in  a  tiny  French  village  which  at 
one  time  has  been  heavily  shelled ;  but  now  never 
even  gets  attention  from  any  aeroplane.  "Reval- 
ley"  is  at  5.30.  At  7.45  we  fall  in  for  a  parade, 
and  at  8.30  are  finished  for  the  day.  There  are 
hundreds  of  little  villages  and  small  towns  around ; 
but  you  don't  feel  like  walking  places  when  you 
haven't  a  cent.  I  guess  a  fellow  has  an  awful 
nerve  to  kick  while  "out",  no  matter  what  the 
conditions;  just  the  same  I  am  getting  bored  to 
death.  In  about  a  week  or  so  this  little  place 
would  look  like  a  little  heaven.  The  worst  of 
these  kinds  of  rest,  you  get  thinking  —  thinking 
of  the  waste  of  time,  and  the  damn  foolishness 
of  it  all.  Just  imagine  it!  here's  me,  a  full 
private,  the  lowest  pawn  in  the  idiotic  game, 
being  played  by  a  bunch  of  men  you  will  never 
even  see,  who  play  from  a  position  of  perfect 
safety.  For  this  I  receive  $1.50  a  week  to  spend, 
the  French  people  being  careful  to  arrange  a 
special  scale  of  prices  to  relieve  you  of  this  mag- 
nificent sum  tout  suit.  I  have  just  had  supper  — 
a  piece  of  bread  one  inch  thick,  about  four  inches 
square,  a  piece  of  cheese  one  inch  square,  and  a 
pint  of  tea.  I  got  this  after  standing  in  a  line  at 
least  half  an  hour.  When  —  if  —  I  get  home,  I 
must  begin  my  life  over  again  from  the  beginning. 
If  I  get  killed,  the  British  Government,  who  is 
spending  more  than*  forty  million  dollars  a  day, 


244       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

will  most  carefully  charge  you  personally  for  the 
blanket  they  bury  me  in. 

If  I  hadn't  come,  I  would  feel  too  cheap  to  live. 

The  only  farseeing  men  have  been  those  who 
have  got  themselves  commissions  in  the  Army 
Service  Corps  and  things  like  that ;  nothing  to  do, 
a  private  clean  your  boots,  better  living  condi- 
tions than  they  ever  had  at  home,  a  certainty  of 
eventually  going  home  —  and  all  the  glory.  Why 
in  Hell  couldn't  I  have  foreseen  that  ?  .  .  . 

I  see  they  have  had  another  air  raid  over  Lon- 
don —  serves  them  damn  well  right.  Could  you 
believe  there  could  be  such  men  living  as  to  have 
the  nerve  to  stand  up  and  decry  reprisals.  There 
are  too  many  of  these  fat  overfed  swine  all  over 
the  world  who  played  Germany's  game.  The 
pity  is  Fritz  always  seems  to  bomb  the  "East 
End"  where  the  poor  people  live  —  ever  notice 
that  ?  Why  doesn't  he  ever  bomb  the  palaces  up 
"West" ?  Why?  A  good  many  people  are  won- 
dering about  a  lot  of  things,  these  days.  He'll 
never  raid  that  particular  part  of  town.  The 
pawns  are  the  people.  But  the  people  are  be- 
ginning to  think.  The  papers  hint  it,  the  men 
out  here  say  it  openly.  Air-raid  reprisals  are  of 
course  the  only  thing  to  do.  If  you  are  having 
a  scrap  with  a  fellow  and  he  punches  you  in  a 
place  you  thought  he  wouldn't,  do  you  merely 
try  to  look  superior  and  just  carry  on  with  the 
scrap  in  your  way?    I  guess  not.     Is  this  to  be 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  245 

a  fight  to  a  finish,  or  merely  an  exhibition  bout  ? 
However  —  I  should  worry.  They  won't  bomb 
Ottawa;  and  if  it  doesn't  do  any  other  good,  it 
will  make  the  people  think  harder. 

I  suppose  you  read  all  the  ghastly  exposure 
about  Mesopotamia.  I  notice  several  papers 
begin  to  wonder  if  things  may  not  be  something 
like  that  over  here.  Well,  of  course,  I  know 
nothing  about  the  General  Staff;  but  I  do  know 
something  about  the  medical  conditions,  which 
over  in  Mesopotamia  were  so  frightful.  And  no 
one  need  worry  about  conditions  as  they  are  on 
the  Western  front.  After  a  man  once  hits  the 
field  ambulance,  he  is  alright;  if  his  life  can  be 
saved  at  all,  it  undoubtedly  will  be.  The  atten- 
tion not  only  provides  necessities,  it  includes 
luxuries,  and  the  skill  is  of  the  very  highest  order. 
I  guess  that  is  why  every  one  is  tickled  when  he 
gets  a  "soft  one."  No  doubt  the  Sisters  have  a 
lot  to  do  with  this.  From  what  I  saw  at  Boulogne, 
I  cannot  imagine  a  more  conscientious,  hard- 
working bunch,  nor  can  I  see  how  that  particular 
hospital  could  be  improved  in  any  way.  It  helps 
a  lot  to  feel  that  you  will  get  a  fair  deal,  and  every- 
thing will  be  done  that  can  be  done,  when  you  are 
in  the  line,  and  Fritz  is  "handing  out  Blighties" 
rather  liberally. 

I  feel  all  tickled  about  the  medical  end  of  the 
way  my  platoon  will  go  into  the  line  this  time. 
It  is  my  idea  (and  I  am  in  my  own  mind  con- 


246       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

vinced  I  have  succeeded)  to  have  it  equipped  to 
handle  any  sick  and  wounded  the  best  of  the 
whole  battalion.  As  I  have  told  you,  it  is  most 
difficult  and  discouraging,  trying  to  get  supplies 
from  the  proper  quarter.  The  suggestion  is 
turned  down  that  we  should  carry  simple  medicines 
in  the  line  —  like  phenacetin,  Cascara  and  like 
things.  Obviously  absurd  —  as  a  man  goes  sick 
and  leaves  the  trench  to  go  to  the  Dressing 
Station,  when,  if  we  carried  the  stuff,  he  could 
be  treated  right  there  on  the  spot.  I  have  told 
you  I  am  on  good  terms  with  all  of  our  Company 
Officers,  and  I  have  explained  all  this  and  they 
agree.  Again  —  another  thing  —  the  men  like 
to  feel  that  the  S.B.  is  interested  in  the  job  and 
will  carry  all  he  can.  Well,  this  trip,  when  just 
odd  platoons  were  left  out,  and  the  M.O.  was 
away,  I  made  out  a  compendious  list,  got  the 
O.C.  and  Adjutant  to  O.K.  it,  and  beat  it  over  to 
a  field  ambulance  of  a  different  division  about  ten 
kilometre  away.  And  —  got  the  whole  works : 
ointments,  spirits  of  ammonia  — (to  buck  up  fel- 
lows after  being  buried,  etc.)  pills  of  all  sorts  and 
everything.  So  now  I  go  into  the  line  with  as 
good  a  kit  as  any  advanced  Dressing  Station, 
and  we'll  be  the  only  platoon  having  such  an 
outfit.  I  don't  mind  the  extra  weight  a  bit.  I 
am  keen  to  make  good  on  this  thing,  and  it  is  all 
worth  it.  Also  I  am  tickled  about  another  fellow 
having  joined  us  from  the  Taplow  Hosp.     He 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  247 

was  wounded  with  the  Battalion  at  the  Somme 
last  year,  and  while  in  Blighty  was  given  a  job 
in  the  Hosp.  and  learned  a  lot.  Now  he  is  back 
in  my  platoon,  and  I  can  call  on  him  in  a  pinch 
for  help.  That  makes  three  of  us  who  can  all 
give  help  in  bad  times.  Of  course  the  other  two 
—  H.  and  this  fellow  —  carry  rifles  and  are  in  the 
line  like  the  rest.  I  am  the  only  official  one  for 
that  work.  All  through  the  bad  times  when 
Fresnoy  was  lost,  I  never  had  any  help  at  all, 
and  many  times  was  at  a  loss;  but  now  all 
is  different.  H.  is  my  assistant,  and  takes 
my  place  if  I  get  hit,  and  the  other  fellow  is 
spare  man. 

So  we  are  all  fixed  up  and  everybody  is  pleased. 


Friday,  July,  the  thirteenth. 

My  lucky  day,  you  remember;  but  no  letter, 
no  parcel,  and  figs  for  tea.  My  luck  must  have 
departed  elsewhere,  or  probably  it's  too  hot  for  it 
to  work.  Well  the  Saturday  Post  was  great. 
After  I  had  read  it,  I  intended  writing  some  more 
to  you,  but  another  distraction  came  up.  Some 
few  hundred  yards  away  is  tethered  to  a  traction 
engine,  one  of  the  familiar  sausage  balloons. 
Fritz  got  uneasy  about  it  and  actually  started 
shelling  it  with  6'  shrapnel.  I  guess  that  doesn't 
convey  much ;  but  ask  some  one  to  describe  to 
you  the  size  of  6'  shell.     On  the  way  over,  it  makes 


248       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

a  noise  like  two  express  trains  both  blowing  their 
sirens.  I  never  saw  a  balloon  shelled  like  that  with 
such  big  stuff  before.  It  must  be  an  expensive 
business  and  most  difficult  work.  The  two  ob- 
servation officers  did  not  phone  down  to  be  hauled 
in,  but  stayed  right  with  it  till  dark,  when  Fritz 
quit.  Imagine  shelling  a  small  object  like  a 
balloon  in  the  air,  from  a  distance  of  ten  miles 
away,  and  with  a  naval  gun.  They  must  be  bugs 
or  have  something  very  important  to  hide,  prob- 
ably the  latter.  Usually  they  employ  planes  to 
bring  these  down.  It's  a  great  sight  to  see  Fritz 
swoop  down  vertically  at  over  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  an  hour,  the  balloon  burst  into  smoke 
and  flames,  and  then  notice  two  white  mushrooms 
slowly  coming  to  the  ground  (the  observers  in 
parachutes),  that  is,  if  they  are  quick  enough. 
The  whole  business  takes  about  twenty  seconds, 
from  Fritz  appearing  at  a  terrific  height  to  the 
conflagration. 

We  haven't  seen  any  news  here  for  five  days. 
We  don't  even  know  what  the  Russians  are  doing, 
or  what  is  happening  anywhere  !  .  .  . 

As  I  have  said  before,  when  you  get  wounded 
your  troubles  don't  automatically  end  —  they 
only  just  begin.  They  end  when  you  hit  the 
C.C.  Station  and  a  woman  gets  hold  of  you. 

Kiss  little  Billie  for  Dad  and  tell  her  to 
remind  poor  old  forgetful  Mummie  about  her 
photograph. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  249 

Everything  here  and  with  me  is  wonderfully 
well.     I  could  not  be  better  in  health. 

15  July,  '17.      (Sunday) 
My  dearest  Lai :  — 

One  thing  I  like  about  the  Canuck  papers  — 
at  least  the  Vancouver  papers,  I  don't  know  about 
the  others  —  they  print  the  officers'  and  men's 
names  in  the  lists  together.  That's  just  as  it 
should  be,  of  course.  In  England,  some  papers 
don't  even  print  the  men's  names  at  all  —  only 
officers'.  I  guess  the  men  don't  count  over  there. 
All  the  English  periodicals,  etc.  deal  exclusively 
with  officers  —  the  magazine  pictures,  even  the 
blessed  ads,  all  officers;  they  make  me  tired, 
those  people.  .  .  . 

Well,  as  I  said  last  night,  we  were  billeted  in 
evacuated  houses.  My  place  was  up  two  flights 
of  stairs,  in  the  attic  with  two  more  other  fellows. 
I  was  just  nicely  getting  to  sleep  under  my  over- 
coat, when  the  old  familiar  screech  came  over, 
apparently  rather  close.  It  was  followed  by 
several  more.  They  sound  worse  at  night  some- 
how, and  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  feel  much  like  sleep. 
However,  I  wasn't  to  have  any  apparently,  as  a 
man  came  chasing  up  the  stairs  looking  for 
stretcher  bearers  with  a  flashlight.  I  had  taken 
all  my  clothes  off,  rather  foolishly,  I  guess;  but 
we'd  been  "bomb  proof"  so  long,  I'd  almost  for- 
gotten about  the  war.     I  had  to  laugh  at  myself 


UO       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

as  I  hastily  got  into  my  boots,  forgetting  I  hadn't 
got  my  trousers  on,  and  had  to  take  'em  off  and 
begin  all  over  again.  You  couldn't  light  a  light, 
as  there  were  holes  in  the  roof,  and  then  I  couldn't 
find  my  tin  hat.  However,  I  wasn't  really  very 
long  before  I  was  out  in  the  street  and  following 
an  Imperial  Artillery  man  to  where  a  man  lay 
who  had  been  hit.  I  did  what  I  could  —  it  wasn't 
much  —  a  shell  splinter  had  hit  him  in  the  stomach. 
As  we  bound  it  up,  he  was  unconscious  and  getting 
cold.  The  man  sleeping  under  the  same  blanket 
with  him  was  untouched.  I  got  four  of  his  bunch 
to  take  him  away  on  a  stretcher  to  the  advanced 
dressing  station,  wherever  it  was.  They  seemed 
to  know. 

On  the  way  over,  I  had  decided  to  locate  a 
heap  of  bricks  and  mud  or  something  in  the  street, 
and  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  in  the  lee  of  that ; 
but  it  came  on  to  rain,  so  I  abandoned  the  idea  — 
I  was  only  about  fifty  yards  from  the  house  — 
and  as  Fritz  was  now  shelling  another  part  of  the 
town,  I  turned  in  in  the  attic  once  more.  Again 
I  was  just  going  off  to  sleep  when  back  came  the 
shells  to  the  old  place  and  F ,  who  was  sleep- 
ing next  me,  said,  — 

"What  do  you  think  we'd  better  do?" 

"Get  out  of  here,  anyway,"  I  said. 

So  we  came  downstairs  and  went  and  laid  in 
one  of  the  dugouts  I  told  you  of,  just  in  front  of 
the  house,     I  am  there  now. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  251 

17  July,  '17. 

Last  night,  we  moved  from  our  comfortable 
chateau  to  meet  the  boys  in  the  place  where  they 
were  coming  out  to. 

It  is  a  large  town,  the  biggest  I  have  seen  within 
the  shelling  area.  Here,  there  and  everywhere 
in  different  streets  I  noticed  shell  wrecked  houses ; 
but,  with  the  town  being  so  large,  it  isn't  as  notice- 
able as  in  a  small  village.  We  were  billeted  in 
houses  which  had  been  evacuated  by  civilians, 
though  these  are  very  few.  The  majority  are 
occupied  by  women,  children  and  old  men.  (Since 
I  commenced  this  page  four  shells  have  dropped 
within  about  five  hundred  yards.)  Try  and  im- 
agine, say,  Second  Avenue  —  our  street  is  about 
like  that  as  near  as  you  can  compare  anything  of 
the  old  world  with  the  new  —  the  sidewalks  gone, 
the  houses  dilapidated  for  want  of  paint,  bits  chipped 
off  most  of  them,  the  front  garden  fences  all  gone 
and  rank  grass  and  weeds  choking  up  everything, 
most  of  the  windows  gone,  the  whole  effect  most 
down  at  heel  and  frowsy  looking.  In  front  of  each 
house  where  the  sidewalk  was,  is  a  hole  in  the 
ground,  which  is  a  dugout,  reinforced  with  tim- 
bers. When  a  shell  comes  particularly  close,  the 
civilian  and  military  population  walking  down 
the  street  at  the  time  can  dive  down  into  these 
holes,  for  the  moment,  then  crawl  out  and  con- 
tinue  along  until   another   comes.     Needless  to 


252       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

say,    the   women    don't   wear   white   shoes    and 
dresses,  and  "dignity"  is  forgotten. 

After  all  these  months  of  war,  the  civilian 
population  have  got  callous,  seem  to  be  able  to 
judge  the  distance  of  the  shells  to  a  hair,  and 
altogether  seem  far  less  interested  than  the 
soldiers.  The  shops  and  estaminets  are  all  open, 
and  in  the  Y.M.  is  a  free  cuisine  nightly.  The 
children  walk  about  unconcerned,  selling  choco- 
late and  spearmint  —  and  "Ingleech  Newspa- 
pairs"  and  never  look  up  unless  a  shell  actually 
hits  in  the  street.  The  ground  shakes  perpetually 
with  our  own  heavies  which  are  hidden  all  over 
the  town. 

Next  day  — (or  rather  evening). 

As  I  told  you  before,  the  Division  just  now  is 
baseball  crazy.  The  thing  causes  the  most  in- 
tense rivalry  —  even  Generals  attend  —  and  the 
winning  team  gets  a  trip  to  Paris  where  they  will 
play  games  against  American  teams.  The  rivalry 
between  Batt'ns.  in  everything,  line  work  and 
games,  is  at  all  times  intense ;  a  sneer  at  a  man's 
Batt'n.  is  a  fight  at  any  time.  We  kick  about 
our  crowd  amongst  ourselves;  but  don't  let  an 
outsider  agree,  or  it's  bad  for  him. 

To  lose  a  piece  of  trench  is  like  losing  a  game 
through  being  a  quitter.  It's  fine,  the  spirit;  I 
love  it  —  it's  like  school  and  college.  I  guess  this 
would  puzzle  Fritz,  wouldn't  it  ?    This  spirit  — 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  253 

Next  day. 

Today  has  been  a  confounded  nuisance;  the 
polishing  is  getting  on  every  one's  nerves.  We 
even  have  inspection  in  the  afternoons  now; 
it's  done  to  such  a  limit  that  entrenching  tools 
have  to  be  cleaned,  and  both  sides  of  brass  buckles, 
and  so  on  —  all  for  an  hour's  inspection  by  some 
General  or  other.  All  the  officers  seem  to  be  go- 
ing crazy  and  harass  the  fellows  to  death.  We'll 
soon  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the  front  line,  to  get 
away  from  them ;  there  you  only  have  a  lieuten- 
ant around.  This  evening  I  had  a  very  enjoyable 
time;  the  band  plays  most  nights  in  the  "Grande 
Place"  as  I  see  it's  called  —  some  name  for  a 
small  village  green !  You  can  sit  around  on  the 
grass  and  read  and  listen  to  it.  The  French 
peasants  and  miners'  wives  and  children  all  turn 
out,  and,  as  it's  a  quiet  little  back  water  of  a 
place  far  from  the  high  road,  no  motors  or  trans- 
port going  along  stirring  up  the  dust.  .  .  . 

Thursday. 

I  think  I  ought  to  finish  this  and  mail  it. 

Long  before  it  reaches  you  I  shall  have 
experienced  once  again  the  nerve-racking  old 
whizz  —  ker-ump  of  Fritz's  little  shells.  I  have 
had  a  good  rest  —  a  peach.  Only  four  men  out 
of  a  thousand  got  leave,  and  I  was  one.  I  am 
sure  I  never  felt  better,  stronger,  brighter,  in  my 


254       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

life;  and  my  nerves  are  as  good  as  ever  again. 
In  every  way,  I  am  far  better  equipped  to  face 
things  than  I  was  before  the  big  show  in  April. 
I  have  seen  things  at  their  very  worst,  which  is 
some  comfort  anyway,  and  I  do  not  think,  from 
gas  to  machine  guns,  old  Fritz  has  anything  new 
for  me.  "It  is  written",  and  all  I  can  do  is  do 
all  I  can  for  the  boys  that  get  hit,  and  do  my 
darndest  not  to  get  napooed  myself.  Maybe  a 
Blighty  will  come  my  way,  before  the  wet  weather ; 
then  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  to  exercise  all 
my  winning  ways  to  obtain  a  dear  little  cease- 
fire job.  I  have  heard  it  said  a  man  coming  back 
from  a  trip  to  Blighty  on  holiday  dreads  the  life 
ten  times  more  on  his  return.  Well,  I  have  care- 
fully analyzed  my  feelings,  and  I  can  truthfully 
say  I  am  less  afflicted  with  "funk"  or  "cold  feet" 
than  I  was  the  first  time  I  set  out  to  go  up.  In 
fact  —  and  I  am  rather  surprised  myself  —  I 
haven't  the  least  bit  of  funk  in  me  just  now.  I 
may  have  when  I  get  there;  but  I'm  inclined  to 
doubt  it.  Of  course,  no  amount  of  understanding 
or  brains  will  save  you  from  the  one  which  is 
yours;  but  a  knowledge  of  shelling  at  its  worst 
considerably  helps  you  to  do  instinctively  the 
safest  thing  unconsciously,  in  an  ordinary  strafe. 
Another  thing  I  have  which  is  invaluable  to 
me  in  my  particular  branch,  that  is,  the  con- 
fidence of  every  man  and  every  officer  in  my 
outfit  in  my  being  on  the  job  when  I'm  wanted. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  %55 

I  know  I  have  this ;  I  think,  too,  you  will  be  glad 
to  know  it.  It  is  nice  to  feel  that  you  are  trusted 
and  maybe  —  liked. 

The  only  thing  for  you  to  do,  too,  is  to  "carry 
on"  and  carry  on  with  the  biggest  and  bravest 
heart  you  can.  You  can  do  this,  I  know;  you 
had  always  the  better  of  me  in  facing  hard  situa- 
tions bravely. 

We  have  been  told  officially  there  is  hard  fight- 
ing ahead.  There  is.  I  know  it  —  you  know  it. 
I  think  we  are  on  the  eve  of  some  big  things ;  the 
place  we  are  going  to  is  going  to  figure  very  largely 
in  the  news.  The  Canadians  have  won  a  great 
name.  I  am  not  speaking  with  prejudice.  They 
have  all  the  dash  and  spirit  of  the  other  Colonials ; 
but  —  and  a  big  but  —  they  can  be  relied  on  not 
to  get  excited  or  go  too  far;  in  other  words,  to 
obey  orders  to  the  letter. 

All  I  have  previously  said  about  wanting  to  get 
away  from  it  all,  of  course  still  goes.  I'd  give 
anything  to;  but  I  want  to  go  legitimately,  if 
that  is  the  right  word. 

20  July,  '17. 

.  .  .  The  place  I  was  writing  from  before 
got  altogether  too  hot.  That  same  afternoon, 
a  woman  got  killed,  and  another  shell  took  the 
front  of  a  house  off ;  a  woman  had  just  gone  to  a 
little  lean-to  shed  only  a  second  before,  and  there- 
fore wasn't  hit.     Such  are  the  trifles  that  come 


256       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

between  life  and  death  in  that  town.  The  amaz- 
ing thing  was  that  half  an  hour  afterwards  the 
old  man,  the  old  woman,  and  a  child  were  uncon- 
cernedly putting  old  boards  up  over  the  shell  hole 
against  the  weather. 

At  night,  we  got  orders  to  move.  Eventually 
we  arrived  in  a  little  wood  and  were  told  to  "dis- 
miss." F.  and  I  lay  under  a  tree.  Early  in  the 
morning,  it  came  on  to  rain.  Next  day,  we  tore 
down  some  old  buildings,  got  pieces  of  rusty,  old 
corrugated  iron,  and  made  a  sort  of  lean-to  against 
the  tree.  It  rained  all  day  and  the  wind  was 
terrific.  We  covered  it  with  branches  broken 
from  the  bushes;  it  helped,  but  it  wasn't  rain- 
proof. Life  is  still  very  damp,  and  uncomfy  — 
very. 

Yesterday  K.  came  back,  looking  very  well  and 
fit,  but  horribly  despondent,  as  he's  missed  his 
leave.  I  think  he  intended  getting  married. 
Can't  now,  he  says.  He'd  never  try  for  a  staff 
job  down  at  the  base.  He  asked  to  come  back  — 
would  you  believe  it  —  because  —  he  wasn't 
getting  his  mail.     Some  reason ! 

You'll  see  we've  had  the  King  over.  He  was 
up  near  us  some  time  ago  and  reviewed  some 
B.C.  Canucks  about  a  mile  away.  Luckily  they 
didn't  call  us  out.  If  we  had  been,  I  guess  we'd 
have  been  polishing  and  cleaning  for  six  months 
ahead.  You  should  have  heard  the  language  of 
the  bunch  he  did  see. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  257 

Reviews  are  the  biggest  bore  out  here.  Appar- 
ently those  who  do  the  reviewing  forget  our  chief 
consideration  is  whether  we'll  be  alive  next  week, 
or  the  one  after,  and  therefore  can  hardly  in  the 
nature  of  things  be  wildly  enthusiastic  in  having 
a  brass  hat  walk  by  you,  who  never  saw  a  shell 
exploded  except  through  a  telescope. 

I  want  you  to  order  "The  Sunday  Pictorial", 
for  July  15,  '17.  In  it  you  will  see  a  picture  of 
the  Church  Service  held  on  Dominion  Day  that 
I  told  you  about.  I  am  about  the  centre  of  the 
bunch  of  men  on  this  side  of  it,  though  of  course 
you  cannot  see  me.  I  want  you  to  keep  it,  as  it 
is  a  fine  example  of  how  hot  air  is  dished  up  to 
the  public.  It  says:  "Enemy  Air  Craft  over 
a  Church  Service"  —  whereas  it  was  our  own 
planes,  which  of  course  the  photographer  knew 
—  so  would  any  of  us  who  used  his  brain.  It's 
hardly  likely  about  four  thousand  men  would 
stand  packed  in  a  bunch  calmly  looking  up  at  an 
enemy  aeroplane  while  the  padre  carried  on  with 
the  service.  It's  like  the  pictures  you  see  of  big 
bugs  in  the  trenches.  Yes  —  trenches  for  teach- 
ing recruits  down  at  Havre  or  somewhere.  There's 
always  something  that  gives  it  away  to  any  one  in 
the  know,  like  showing  men  with  gas  masks  not  at 
the  alert  —  i.e.  on  the  chest  —  or  without  a  tin  hat. 

Now  I  must  finish  this.  Writing  is  very  diffi- 
cult. It's  wet,  cold  and  windy,  and  I  ain't  got 
no  'ome,  at  least  only  a  very  flimsy  one.  .  ,  . 


£58       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

n  July,  '17. 

I  feel  utterly  dispirited  to-day.  We  moved 
to  a  different  town  again,  one  that's  deserted 
and  shelled  pretty  bad,  like  the  rest  around 
here.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  spent  with  young 
V.  R.  and  in  the  evening  went  up  into  the  front 
line  on  a  working  party.  On  the  way  back  a 
shell  dropped  amongst  the  bunch  and  got  eigh- 
teen. The  work,  the  confusion,  all  in  the  dark 
and  everything,  was  awful  for  awhile,  one  boy 
dying  awfully  hard  with  a  wound  in  the  stomach 
—  had  to  be  held  down  for  fear  of  tearing  off  his 
dressings.  I  was  called  over  to  see  if  it  had 
slipped,  felt  down ;  but  it  hadn't,  so  I  went  away 
and  they  got  him  off  to  the  station.  This  morn- 
ing —  as  young  V  didn't  come  over  to  see  me 
as  usual,  I  went  to  hunt  him  up  —  to  find  it 
was  him  who  had  the  stomach  wound,  and  he  was 
dead.  I  went  over  to  the  ruined  house  where 
the  dead  were  and  sure  enough  it  was  him,  poor 
kid !  He  just  looked  asleep.  If  only  I'd  known 
it  was  him,  when  I  was  called  over,  I  could  have 
given  my  other  cases  to  other  men,  and  stayed 
with  him  till  he  died.  But  in  the  darkness  and 
hurry  I  never  recognized  him.  The  other  stretcher 
bearer  that  dressed  him  told  me  at  the  time  the 
man  couldn't  live.  I  remember  I  asked  him  if 
he  knew  him;  but  he  said  he  didn't.  And  only 
last   Saturday  we  were  going  to  walk  over  to 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  259 

the  nearby  town  —  H.,  K.  and  I  to  have  our 
photographs  taken  together;  but  left  it  too  late. 
A  brighter,  cleaner,  steadier  young  boy  never 
came  to  France.  I  think  he  told  me  he  was  an 
only  child.  I  will  get  his  mother's  address,  and 
have  you  write.  I  cannot.  By  you  get  this, 
I'll  have  been  through  —  or  otherwise  —  the 
biggest  battle  of  the  war,  I  guess.  If  I'm  to  get 
it,  I  shall,  I  suppose.  Well,  what  is  there  to 
say  ?  Nothing.  It's  my  fate  alone  that  can 
show.  Every  second  of  these  coming  weeks, 
my  heart  will  be  reaching  out  to  you.  I  love 
you,  dear  Lai  —  am  yours  —  now  —  and  for- 
ever. You  have  been  always  —  are  the  one 
perfect  thing  in  my  life. 

28  July,  '17.     (Evening) 
My  darling  Lai :  — 

The  weather  is  lovely,  warm,  clear,  bright  blue 
skies.  The  nights,  though,  are  getting  chilly,  and 
sleeping  without  covering  of  any  sort  is  not  so 
pleasant. 

It's  queer  how  magnificently  confident  every 
one  is.  I  am  quite  sure  it  has  never  occurred  to 
any  one  that  all  might  not  go  well ;  that,  for  in- 
stance, Heinie  might  put  up  such  a  resistance  as 
to  stop  us.  How  terrible  it  must  be  to  be  fight- 
ing a  losing  fight ;  to  know  you  are  opposing  men 
who  never  even  figure  on  your  resisting  at  all, 


260       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

just  plan  to  walk  right  over  you  without  even 
contempt,  not  even  with  savagery,  just  in  the 
day's  work !  Every  one  knows  the  artillery  will 
support  us  to  the  limit  artillery  science  has  gone, 
as  they  know  the  other  Batt'ns.  are  just  humans 
like  ourselves,  and  will  go  over  without  hate, 
without  excitement,  just  because  — 

It's  the  job  of  work  we  came  to  do,  and  we  do 
it.  That's  all.  I  have  looked  to  find  some  dif- 
ference —  some  sign  in  the  fellows  around  that 
we  are  going  into  battle;  but  there's  none,  none 
unless  that  the  mail  bag  is  heavier  —  if  that's  a 
sign.  The  boys  discuss  it,  of  course;  but  only 
in  a  detached  way,  more  as  to  technical  details 
than  anything  else.  I  heard  a  man  wondering 
if  they'd  be  able  to  get  mail  in  to  us,  and  kicking 
because  he  thought  they'd  probably  be  too  darned 
lazy.  One  fellow  did  say  he  hoped  there  wouldn't 
be  many  casualties,  but  he  didn't  sound  awfully 
interested.  .  .  . 

(I  guess)  29  July,  '17. 

We  are  on  the  eve  of  the  most  terrific  thing  in 
history.  Our  Batt'n  has  a  most  difficult  part  to 
play :  as  each  hill  is  occupied,  we  will  have  to 
take  and  hold  the  trench.  There  will  be  Ger- 
man trenches  which  of  course  will  receive  very 
bad  shelling.  All  the  time,  we  shall  be  carrying 
supplies  up  to  the  firing  line  —  which,  in  cases 
like  this  when  an  operation  is  on,  is  done  in  broad 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  261 

daylight  without  cover.  The  whole  operation  is 
going  to  be  terrific,  so  big,  in  fact,  that  some 
think  it  will  even  end  the  war  this  year.  I'm  not 
saying  all  this  without  thinking.  I  mean  it  can't 
make  you  anxious  as,  by  it  reaches  you,  the 
operations  will  be  either  a  success  or  otherwise, 
and  I'll  be  either  well  —  or  out  — 

I  only  wish  I  could  tell  you  all  the  details  of 
what  I  am  seeing,  and  what  I  know,  but  that  must 
wait  till  I'm  home.  The  things  happening  hourly 
are  so  tremendous ;  the  ingenuity,  machinery, 
preparations,  all  so  unbelievably  terrific,  I  couldn't 
even  put  it  on  paper,  if  I  were  allowed. 

One  thing,  I'd  hate  to  be  in  the  German 
front  line  today  —  and  on.  It  is  my  firm  be- 
lief that  it's  now  or  never,  the  turning  point  of 
the  war. 

There's  going  to  be  casualties,  and  nasty 
sights,  and  nerves  tried  to  the  limit.  I'm  ner- 
vous —  nervous  as  hell ;  but  I'll  make  it  alright, 
I'm  sure.  I  mean  I  won't  fall  down.  The  rest  — 
is  written  — . 

A  complete  victory  was  snatched  from  us  at 
the  Somme,  owing  to  quite  unexpected  bad 
weather.  At  Vimy,  on  April  9,  it  was  cloudy, 
rained,  snowed,  and  utterly  prevented  a  very 
large  advance. 

Today  it  has  unexpectedly  rained,  heavily; 
aeroplane  work  at  a  most  critical  moment  is  sus- 
pended; and  roads  already  in  very  bad  shape. 


262       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER  ] 

In  all  probability,  the  advance  will  be  held  up. 
The  trenches,  incidentally,  will  be  hell.  .  .  . 

I  am  keeping  up  a  good  heart  —  trying  not  to 
think  of  anything  nasty  —  mainly  hoping.  I'll 
make  a  good  showing  on  my  job,  which  I  shall  try 
my  utmost  to  do. 

Victory  will  be  ours,  of  course. 

My  heart  and  all  my  soul  are  yours. 

We  shall  meet  again,  I  know. 

30  July,  '17. 

My  dearest  Lai :  — 

The  weather  has  gone  clean  back  on  us.  Isn't 
the  coincidence  amazing  —  and  the  bad  luck  of  it ! 
Think,  every  time  we  have  planned  an  advance  on 
a  huge  scale  which  would  of  necessity  bring  the 
war  nearer  to  an  end,  the  weather  has  intervened 
and  stopped  us.  Today  it  is  cold,  wet,  dirty,  not 
a  plane  to  be  seen.  The  guns  go  on,  though. 
There  are  minutes  when  you  cannot  hear  your- 
self speak.  The  "whizz-bangs"  don't  open  up 
till  the  zero  hour  when  the  boys  jump  over,  or, 
rather,  a  few  minutes  before.  Though  the  ground 
throbs  day  and  night  with  this  titanic  preparation, 
there  are  hundreds  of  hidden  guns  that  have  never 
even  fired  a  round  yet.  At  Vimy,  too,  there  was 
only  a  gun  barrage ;  in  this  are  to  be  all  kinds  of 
new-fangled  contraptions  in  addition.  I  certainly 
don't   envy   Fritz.     I   wonder   if   the   Canadian 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  263 

papers  are  putting  you  wise  to  the  thing.  The 
English  papers  openly  speak  of  it.  .  .  . 

As  you  know,  all  trenches  bear  names,  like 
streets.  They  have  to,  for  map  purposes,  and 
so  you  can  find  your  way  about,  direct  people  and 
everything.  What  sort  of  a  humorist  was  the 
guy  who  named  the  trenches  we  occupy?  We 
enter  by  "Cork  Screw  Trench"  and  through 
"Suicide  Hole",  our  resting  place  being  "Murder 
Alley."  He  had  a  genius  for  the  job  evidently, 
and  one  is  not  likely  to  forget  the  names.  .  .  . 

So  thorough  is  this  job,  that  roads  have  been 
built  in  the  night  right  over  the  shell-torn,  open 
ground,  over  trenches,  and  everything,  then  cov- 
ered over  lightly  with  soil,  so  it  looks  just  the  same 
as  the  surrounding  ground.  Nothing  has  been 
forgotten,  you  bet ! 

31  July,  '17. 

My  Dearie  Lai :  — 

Today  wet,  cold,  impossible  weather;  our 
bombardment  slacking  off  a  bit.  Did  nothing 
all  day,  sat  in  ground  floor  room,  no  ceilings, 
walls  mostly  wrecked,  no  windows,  and  large 
opening  leading  into  hall.  By  tearing  beams  off 
outhouse,  got  wood  for  fire  which  we  made  in 
remains  of  the  open  fireplace.  Very  cosy  when 
we  covered  the  holes  up  with  waterproof  sheets. 
Heinie  quit  retaliating  altogether. 


264       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

In  afternoon,  he  had  the  nerve  to  send  a  plane 
over  —  circled  round  just  overhead.  We  could 
plainly  see  iron  crosses  on  wings.  Fierce  at- 
tempts were  made  to  get  him,  one  chap  having 
the  presence  of  mind  to  get  his  rifle  and  have  a 
shot.  To  every  one's  disgust  he  got  away.  We 
are  sore;  but  I  guess  the  batteries  were  sorer,  as 
no  doubt  he  got  pretty  fair  photographs.  It  was 
a  brave  act,  and  you  have  got  to  hand  it  to  him. 
We  all  expected  a  deuce  of  a  "strafe"  after  he  got 
home,  but  as  yet  none  has  come.  Slept  as  usual 
in  the  cellar  on  my  stretcher,  as  none  of  us  had 
even  an  overcoat.  Haven't  slept  for  nights,  owing 
to  the  cold. 

1  August,  '17. 

Weather  worse  —  it's  damnable.  Was  there 
ever  such  luck !  Rain  came  so  badly  through 
roof  had  to  hunt  around  for  corrugated  iron  to 
put  on  the  remains  of  the  ceiling  beams  —  that 
is,  on  what  was  once  the  front  bedroom  floor.  All 
dry  then,  huge  open  wood  fire  —  jake !  Noon, 
heard  armies  to  the  North  and  South  had  gained 
objectives,  but  one  had  had  a  hard  fight.  Do  not 
thoroughly  understand  it.  All  seems  to  be  going 
well,  though.    Maybe  their  weather  is  not  like  ours. 

Evening. 

May  have  to  go  on  working  party  tonight. 
Got  full   supplies   of  dressings.     Got  a  fine  kit 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  265 

now.  Was  low,  owing  to  busy  time  the  other 
night.  Fritz  now  starting  to  come  back  a  bit 
with  overhead  shrapnel  and  5.9's.  One  casu- 
alty only  so  far.  Mail  for  every  one  but  me, 
Cheerful !  Got  a  cold.  Dreading  trenches ; 
they'll  be  full  of  water.  Damn  the  luck !  Good 
weather,  which  we  had  every  right  to  count  on, 
and  we  would  have  been  away  ahead  —  "Gott 
mit  uns." 

%  August,  '17. 

Weather  worse  and  worse,  positively  awful. 
Rain  incessant  —  and  cold.  No  news  of  a  move, 
and  no  working  party  last  night. 

This  morning  got  a  very  old  paper.  Young 
French  kids  bring  papers  right  up,  when  they  can 
get  hold  of  them.  ...  A  French  "civile"  will 
face  the  whole  German  Army  for  a  franc.  They 
have  a  Jew  or  a  Scotchman  backed  right  off  the 
map.  The  papers  have  the  early  news  of  the 
opening  battle  in  Belgium.  We  hoped  for  a  com- 
plete smash;  but  what  could  you  do  in  this 
weather  and  without  'planes  ?  Our  delayed  move 
was  only  to  be  minor,  anyway,  in  comparison  with 
the  big  show,  and  now  in  this  weather  I  don't 
know  what  they  will  do.  A  success  as  planned 
might  have  ended  the  war.  The  Kaiser  has 
some  excuse  for  saying  Gott  is  mit  him. 

.  .  .  Well  —  We  are  not  going  up.  The  show 
is  off. 


mQ       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Now's  your  chance  to  prove  to  me  that  the 
Almighty  is  with  us.  This  push  was  intended, 
without  a  shadow  of  doubt,  to  finish  the  war.  The 
weather  intervened  in  favour  of  the  Germans, 
and  the  war  is  prolonged. 

4  August,  '17. 
3rd  Anniversary. 

Rain  of  course.  That  goes  without  saying. 
Had  a  small  parade  this  morning,  practicing 
putting  on  "Gaspirators."  Six  seconds  is  the 
time  allowed  and  that  is  ample.  I  see  the  morn- 
ing's paper  says  the  reason  there  were  not  more 
prisoners  up  north  was  because  our  bombard- 
ment killed  so  many  —  M'yes  —  quite  so  ! 

We  have  had  a  small  lecture  on  the  Huns'  new 
gas.  Large  calibre  shells  of  Prussic  Acid  gas. 
Gentle  creature,  the  Hun !  It  has  already  been 
christened  the  "Mustard"  shell,  as  it  leaves  the 
ground,  where  it  hits,  yellow,  and  tickles  the  nose 
like  mustard.  It  remains  effective  for  as  long  as 
thirty  hours.  You  can  absorb  it  through  the  skin 
by  rubbing  your  clothes  with  your  hands ;  in  fact, 
any  old  way.  It  seems  to  be  made  so  you  can 
get  gassed  with  the  least  possible  trouble  on  your 
part.  "Deadly"  is  its  middle  name.  A  place 
may  be  shelled  with  it,  one  day,  and  you  go  past 
that  place  next  day,  and  be  gassed.  So  you  see, 
in  spite  of  everything,  the  humane  German  has 
found  another  horror  to  add  to  the  list. 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  £67 

5  August,  '17. 

Still  rain,  rain,  rain,  no  change.  The  trenches 
and  shell  holes  will  now  be  quite  full.  Got  a 
paper  this  a.m.,  and  am  not  impressed,  decidedly 
not  impressed.  But  we  can't  fight  the  elements 
too,  and  as  Germany  has  evidently  enlisted  the 
weather  man  on  his  side,  what  can  we  do?  It 
is  beyond  words.  You  can  safely  arrange  your 
Xmas  festivities  and  leave  me  out. 

It's  noon,  and  as  yet  we  have  no  news  of  our 
own  wee  show.  I  can't  think  that  we  shall  stay 
here  much  longer.  The  other  battalions  in  the 
brigade  have  done  a  turn,  holding  the  line  till  the 
show  opens,  and  it's  up  to  us. 

Eats  are  poor,  awful  poor. 

Last  night,  Fritz  came  back  a  bit  in  this  little 
burg.  None  came  too  close  to  our  particular 
bedroom.  At  least,  we  didn't  consider  it  too  close, 
though  I  guess  if  shells  burst  near  enough  to  your 
house  in  Ottawa  to  throw  mud  and  bricks  down 
your  basement  steps,  you  wouldn't  sleep  much. 
It  depends  on  your  point  of  view.  Last  night 
was  the  best  night  I  ever  had,  with  my  own  pillow 
and  sandbag  blanket. 

A  fellow  I  know  got  a  nice  pocket  edition  of 
Service's  Red  Cross  Rhymes  and  lent  it  me.  The 
Stretcher  Bearer  one,  for  which  I  hoped  a  lot,  I 
thought  rather  poor.  No  one  seems  ever  to  have 
told  in  writing  about  the  Batt'n.  S.B.     He  is  the 


268       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

only  Stretcher  Bearer  that  doesn't  stretcher  bear; 
but  goes  in,  lives  and  works  with  the  battalion  in 
the  line,  and  does  the  first  aid  over  the  top  or  be- 
hind, all  the  time.  The  next  nearest  are  the  Fid. 
Amb.  bearers  who  bear  only,  and  go  after  the  scrap 
or  strafe,  when  sent  for,  to  get  the  wounded  out. 
When  not  wanted,  they  are  way  back  in  a  dug- 
out, the  Batt'n  S.B.  being  in  the  trench  or  shell 
hole  all  the  time  with  the  boys.  Again,  he  does 
not  wear  a  red  cross,  and,  in  a  counter  attack,  gets 
killed  along  with  the  rest  of  the  boys,  as  he  is  not 
classed  as  a  non-combatant. 

.  .  .  He  should  write  one  to  a  trench  cooker, 
the  old  bully-beef  tin  with  holes.  It's  just  a 
candle,  then  a  bit  of  sandbag  or  shirt  flap.  How 
many  meals  I've  cooked  on  such  a  range  !  By  the 
way,  sandbags  don't  figure  much  in  the  war  now 
—  only  to  carry  things  in.  Heinie  uses  very  few. 
He  prefers  concrete,  and  of  course  we  occupy  his 
old  lines.  The  old  days  of  putting  France  and 
Belgium  in  bags  is  fini. 

Well  I  guess  it  is  time  to  go  down  into  the  cellar 
and  try  to  sleep.  I  pinched  a  few  sandbags  today, 
tied  them  together,  dried  them  out,  and  have  what 
I  think  will  make  quite  a  blanket.  Am  anxiously 
looking  forward  to  seeing  the  paper  in  the  morning. 
No  one  has  a  word  of  news  how  the  big  show  in 
the  world  is  going.  Doesn't  it  seem  queer,  only 
a  few  miles  from  the  battle  and  you  over  there 
have  news  forty-eight  hours  in  advance.     I  guess 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  269 

tomorrow  will  be  the  last  day  for  us,  though  there 
is  no  change  in  the  weather. 

18  August,  '17. 
Somewhere  before  Lens. 

My  very  dearest  girl,  Lai :  — 

I  am  anxious  to  get  this  out  because  on  Mon- 
day at  four-twenty  we  go  over  the  top.  It  doesn't 
sound  or  look  much  when  you  write  it,  does  it? 
But  it's  —  well  —  a  serious  undertaking.  I  want 
to  tell  you  something  first  of  the  big  battle.  As  I 
write,  maybe  even  you  are  reading  of  our  big  show, 
a  success  out  and  out.  What  we  thought  was 
going  to  be  only  a  minor  affair  has  turned  out  to 
be  one  of  the  big  things  of  the  war. 

Last  Tuesday  night  we  came  in.  Just  as  we 
were  leaving,  it  started  to  pour,  and  we  all  thought 
that  once  again  Heinie's  lucky  weather  man  had 
come  to  his  aid.  It  cleared  up  though,  and  right 
along  the  weather  has  been  glorious. 

Things  had  been  very  quiet  all  day,  but  just  at 
the  moment  that  we  reached  the  place  where 
young  R.  was  killed,  he  opened  up  with  gas  and 
H.E.  —  a  terrific  strafe,  and  we  were  right  in  it. 
It  was  pitch  dark ;  shells  were  dropping  all  round ; 
the  din  and  screech  was  terrifying.  For  a  second, 
I  was  afraid  there  was  going  to  be  a  stampede. 
The  fellows  got  a  bit  rattled  with  the  gas,  and 
grabbed  for  helmets.     The  only  thing  to  do  was. 


270       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

to  rush  along  through  it,  as  he  wasn't  shelling 
beyond  the  town.  I  could  see  clouds  of  gas  com- 
ing out  of  fallen  shells,  but  to  get  my  mask  on 
would  have  meant  dropping  my  stretcher.  I 
decided  to  run,  and  hold  my  breath.  Just  then 
I  fell  on  my  head  in  a  new  shell  hole,  stretcher  on 
top.  When  I'd  scrambled  out,  I  was  alone.  I 
was  scared  some,  I  must  admit;  but  I  charged 
ahead,  got  there  safely,  stretcher  and  all,  and 
joined  up,  put  my  mask  on  for  a  while,  and  soon 
we  were  out  of  it,  with  the  shells  all  bursting  be- 
hind us.  It  was  touch  and  go  for  a  minute,  and 
can  you  believe  it  —  not  a  man  was  hit.  How 
I'd  have  managed  if  there  had  been  casualties,  I 
dunno'  —  not  in  all  that  gas.  Thank  God  there 
weren't  any ! 

....  At  four-twenty  a.m.  you'd  have  thought 
the  earth  had  cracked  open.  My  God,  it  was 
marvellous !  I  don't  know  how  many  guns  we 
have,  some  say  one  to  every  three  men.  Maybe 
a  thousand,  maybe  ten  —  I  don't  know.  With 
the  first  roar  we  manned  the  trench  and  began  to 
move  along  to  our  places  some  few  hundred  yards 
further  up  the  line.  No  power  on  earth  could 
keep  us  from  getting  on  the  parapet  to  have  a 
look.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  men  advancing 
behind  the  barrage,  but  the  line  of  fire  —  ye  Gods  ! 
Try  to  imagine  a  long  huge  gas  main  which  had 
been  powdered  here  and  there  with  holes  and  set 
fire  to.    The  flame  of  each  shell  burst  and  merged 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  271 

into  the  flame  of  the  other.  It  was  perfect.  It 
was  terrible.  The  flames  were  dotted  with  black 
specks  which  were  bits  of  rock  and  mud.  Never 
has  anything  been  seen  like  it.  And  to  think  on 
Monday  morning  I  shall  advance  —  me  —  be- 
hind just  such  a  line  of  fire  —  into  what  ? 

Well,  we  arrived  at  our  trench  and  just  manned 
it.  No  shell  came  near  us ;  we  were  quite  out  of 
it  all.  After  some  while,  the  barrage  died  down. 
Only  the  scream  of  the  heavies  overhead  and  the 
whirr  of  planes  and  the  heavy  crump,  crump, 
crump  of  Fritzie's  shells  behind  us  searching  for 
batteries.  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  shove 
the  sea  back  with  a  broom. 

Later,  news  filtered  through  from  wounded 
coming  back,  and  engineers,  and  old  men.  All 
the  objectives  had  been  taken,  all  the  counter 
attacks  broken,  such  and  such  a  batt'n  had  lost 
heavily,  another  lightly  —  and  so  on.  Hill  70 
was  ours,  and  the  villages  and  trenches  consoli- 
dated. Canada  had  proved  herself  again.  But 
it  is  not  another  Vimy ;  this  is  no  walk-over,  it  is 
a  pitched  battle.  Heinie  hasn't  quit  yet,  is  hang- 
ing on  desperately.  His  air  service  is  better,  he 
comes  down  and  fires  on  the  trenches ;  but  his 
counter  attacks  lack  spirit,  and  no  wonder.  Our 
guns  —  my  God !  If  you  could  see  them  —  and 
they  say  each  gun  only  fired  three  shots  a  minute, 
and  they  are  capable  of  firing  twenty  !  This  isn't 
war:  it's  murder.     There  are  as  vast  numbers  of 


272       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

prisoners  this  time,  as  at  Vimy ;  but  the  dead  are 
piled  in  heaps. 

On  Sunday  night  we  go  to  the  jumping-off 
trench,  his  line  of  Wednesday,  and  attack.  At 
four-twenty  on  Monday  morning  —  and  that's 
why  I  want  to  write  to  you  (and  to  Billie). 

Luckily  I  am  in  the  first  wave,  and  taken  — 
that  we  lie  out  in  the  open  in  advance  of  the  jump- 
ing-off trench  a  ways ;  and,  as  we  have  only  five 
hundreds  yard  to  go,  we  should  be  on  him  before 
he  gets  to  work  on  us  with  his  guns.  Holding  it 
after  we  have  taken  it,  will  be  up  to  us.  Any 
wounded  in  the  jump-off  and  in  the  open  I  must 
leave  for  the  second  wave,  though  I  guess  I'll  hate 
it.  In  fact,  I  won't  do  it,  if  F.  or  any  one  gets  it. 
I  suppose  I'll  be  busy  most  when  he  puts  his 
barrage  on  his  lost  trench.  We  shall  take  the 
trench,  that  goes  without  saying.  .  .  . 

All  the  boys  are  very  optimistic  —  and  say, 
"  There's  one  thing,  we  are  just  the  very  guys  that 
can  do  it." 

Sure  we  are. 

(All  the  Heinie  prisoners  I  have  seen  are  about 
eighteen  years  old,  not  more,  and  those  who  have 
seen  the  dead  say  they  are  all  the  same,  just  kids.) 

Our  grub  is  rotten,  just  when  it  ought  to  be 
good,  I  should  think  —  only  bully  and  biscuit,  no 
jam  or  butter,  and  about  a  little  spoonful  of  dry 
tea.  I  am  writing  this  in  an  old  Heinie  dugout  — 
just  outside  Loos.     It's  full  of  rats  and,  as  in  all 


IN  THE  TRENCHES  £73 

of  them,  the  floor  is  wet  and  we  have  no  coats  or 
blanket;  but  I  have  salvaged  a  board  to  lie  on, 
and,  with  my  rubber  sheet,  it  isn't  so  bad.  Shell 
proof,  anyway.  The  worst  of  it  is,  we  have  no 
tobacco  or  candles. 

Well,  Lai,  old  pal,  I'll  finish  this.  Whether  I 
see  you  again  or  Billie,  the  next  few  days  will  say. 
I  think  I'll  be  able  to  keep  my  nerve  and  do  what's 
right.  I  hope  so.  I  wonder  what  you'll  be  doing, 
Monday  morning.  I'll  be  thinking  of  you  all  the 
time,  waiting  for  the  barrage  and  the  signal. 

You'll  know  all  about  me,  if  there's  anything  to 
know,  by  Wednesday  or  Thursday,  I  guess.  Let's 
hope  it's  a  hospital  bed  in  Blighty.  The  main 
thing  is  for  me  to  do  what  is  expected  of  me.  Do 
what  you  would  do.  Don't  let's  say  anything 
about  anything  really  nasty  happening.  It  isn't 
going  to.  I  don't  feel  morbid,  or  downhearted, 
or  anything;  in  fact,  most  hopeful.  I  hope  F. 
pulls  through.     I'll  be  awfully  worried  about  him. 

Kiss  and  love  up  our  little  Billie  for  me  —  lots 
and  lots  and  tell  her  I  am  thinking  of  her  too  — 
a  great  deal. 


V 
A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY 


V 
A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY 

September  1,  '17. 

Pinned  at  the  head  of  the  sheet  is  this  clipping.     (Editor.) 

The  night  falls  now,  and  softly  flow 

The  red  lamps,  stretching  far ; 
And  rest  is  here  for  lads  who  know 

The  blood-red  night  of  war. 

Still  peace  and  quiet  days  at  last, 

Grey  walls  and  spreading  flowers  — 
A  haven  from  the  raging  blast 

Of  battle-shattered  hours. 

Now  overhead  the  hour  strikes  slow, 

The  last  birds  softly  call ; 
The  night  falls,  and  the  red  lamps  glow  — 

And  God's  stars  over  all. 

V.A.D.  Hospital; 
England. 
My  very  dearest  Lai,  — 

Well,  I've  got  all  settled  down,  though  I  only 
came  yesterday.  To  come  here  after  France  — 
the  front  line  of  France!  It's  the  limit!  But 
let  me  tell  you. 

The  house  is  an  English  country  home.  It's 
lent  to  the  Government  as  a  V.A.D.  Hosp.  and 

277 


878       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

is  used  exclusively  for  Canadians  and  Australians. 
I  guess  it  holds  about  fifty.  The  staff  are  all 
English  ladies.  Don't  look  for  their  pictures 
in  a  "sister  uniform  of  costly  and  studied  sim- 
plicity" doing  "War  Work  for  our  soldiers"  in  a 
high  class  English  society  paper.  It  won't  be 
there.  They  are  here  to  help  us  get  well,  and 
apparently  make  us  happy.  They  succeed  com- 
pletely. Not  a  man  but  loves  the  place.  The 
amazing  thing  —  there  are  no  rules,  yet  these 
fellows,  fresh  from  the  line,  never  swear,  are 
intensely  polite,  go  out  of  their  way  to  help,  and 
generally  conduct  themselves  far  better  than 
they  ever  did  in  their  lives  —  and  like  it.  Yet 
the  majority  of  "brass  hats"  and  such  like  would 
say  it  couldn't  be  done.  The  presence  of  just 
one  "military  guy"  would  spoil  the  working  of 
the  whole  machine. 

It  is  quite  a  large  house.     We  sleep  in  beds, 
above  each  of  which  is  a  card  saying  it  is  kept 

up  by  one  firm  or  person  in  B .     The  only 

work  we  do  is  make  this  bed.  There  are  several 
bathrooms,  and  tons  of  hot  water.  The  whole 
place  is  free  to  you  to  run  over  any  time  of  the 
day.  As  I  say,  there  are  no  rules  at  all ;  yet  the 
place  is  the  most  orderly,  where  soldiers  have 
been,  that  I  have  ever  seen.  There  are  large 
grounds  —  I  have  already  played  tennis  —  and 
lawn  golf.  You  are  asked  not  to  touch  the  fruit 
trees;    every  tree  is  loaded  with  fruit,   and  is 


A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY  279 

untouched.  In  France,  they  put  armed  guards 
over  fruit  trees,  and  every  one,  in  spite  of  it,  is 
rifled  and  most  of  the  branches  broken  off.  In 
the  grounds  are  open-air  sleeping  huts  for  patients 
needing  air.  Most  of  the  men  here  are  rest 
cures;  my  own  case  gets  no  treatment  other 
than  fresh  air  and  rest.  There  is  no  treatment 
anyway  for  gas.  There  is  a  billiard  room,  cards 
of  course,  and  all  games,  piano,  gramophone,  all 
the  latest  magazines,  etc.,  and  a  library,  a  peach. 
(I  am  starting  on  Ian  Hay's  books.)  In  the 
lovely  big  rooms  are  really  easy  chairs,  not  the 
near  variety  of  a  Y.M.C.A.,  and  open  fireplaces 
with  fires  in  'em  already.  Always  there  is  some- 
thing doing.  Last  night  a  whist  drive,  tonight  a 
concert.     There  are  also  passes  for  any  one  to 

go  to  B any  or  every  day,  or  to  any  place 

you  want,  from  two  to  seven.  I  am  as  happy 
and  contented  as  I  could  possibly  be.  I  haven't 
mentioned  the  meals.  Breakfast  bell  rings  seven- 
thirty,  a  really  breakfast.  Dinner  is  positively 
scrumptious  —  two  vegetables  and  meat,  and 
swell  dessert,  lots  and  lots  of  it.  Tea  four 
o'clock,  and  then  a  meal,  a  proper  meal,  at 
six- thirty  or  so.  And  to  think!  A  couple  of 
weeks  ago  I  was  a  filthy  object  in  the  trenches 
—  nervous  —  verminous  —  hungry  !  Sometimes 
I  think  I'm  going  to  wake  up;  it's  only  a 
dream. 

Tomorrow  is  Sunday,  and  I  am  going  to  try 


280       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

and  go  to  church.  I  see  there  are  services.  Do 
you  know  I  don't  think  I've  realized  all  this  yet. 
I'm  quite  contented  to  sit  here  by  the  fire  and 
read.  The  war  is  miles  and  miles  away.  Now 
that  I'm  civilized  again,  I  must  get  back  to  living 
and  thinking  again.  I  realize  what  a  different 
me  it  is  than  the  one  that  left  Canada.  To  begin 
with,  I  am  horribly  irritable,  short-tempered,  and 
nervously  self  conscious.  I  don't  think  alike  on 
hardly  anything  I  did.  I  always  detested  super- 
ficial people ;  now  I  hate  'em  —  ten  times  worse 
—  I  like  really  people  ten  times  more.  I  dunno' 
how  you'll  like  your  new  husband  at  all;  he's 
altogether  different.  One  thing,  though :  he 
likes  his  wife  better  than  ever  he  did ;  he's  quite 
sure  of  that.  Also  he's  got  an  awful  longing 
to  see  Miss  Billie.  She  wasn't  real  in  France, 
he  never  thought  he'd  see  her,  not  really;  but 
now  it's  different,  and  she's  most  awfully  real  — 
and  a  thousand  possibilities  open  up. 

Sunday  Evening. 

I  had  a  set  at  tennis;  it's  been  raining  a  lot, 
and  the  court  wants  marking  again.  I  think 
I'll  do  that  very  special  job  tomorrow.  I've 
read  all  Ian  Hay's  books.  There  are  so  many 
here  it's  hard  to  choose  which  to  read  first,  but 
I've  just  decided  on  one  of  W.  L.  Locke's.  In 
the  desk  where  I  am  writing,  in  the  French 
window  of  a  lovely  big  room  overlooking  the 


A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY  281 

gardens,  are  albums  for  fellows  to  ink  stuff  in, 
a  sort  of  memory  book.  Most  of  the  stuff  is 
weak  and  rotten,  but  now  and  then  something 
good  has  come  along.  I  must  put  something  on 
myself,  but  I  don't  know  what  yet.  I  also  came 
across  a  list  of  men's  names  who  had  been  here, 
the  date  they  came,  and  the  date  discharged. 
This  list  was  interesting  because  I  see  a  month 
here  is  all  that  can  be  safely  expected. 

3  September,  '17. 

I  have  had  no  mail  from  any  one,  from  the 
Battn.  or  anything.  I  guess  that  is  because  I 
have  moved  around  so  quickly.  I  still  don't 
know  what  happened  when  they  went  over, 
that  morning.  The  fellows  here  from  the  29th 
were  casualties  in  earlier  scraps  —  just  minor 
affairs.  I  have  written  F.,  also  K.,  and  another 
fellow.  It  is  useless  writing  again ;  things  change 
so  quickly  out  there,  any  or  all  of  them  may  be 
dead,  or  in  Hospital,  or  where  they  can't  write. 
It's  rotten  not  knowing  what  has  happened  to  F. 
It  is  useless  to  worry,  yet  I  can't  help  it.  He 
and  I  were  real  friends.  I  only  hope  he  got  a 
nice  one.  It  is  the  best  thing  you  can  wish  any 
one  out  there  —  and  indeed  I  cannot  see  how 
he  could  possibly  go  through  the  recent  stuff 
and  get  nothing.  I  only  hope  it  wasn't  a 
napoo. 


282       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

5  September,  '17. 
My  dearie  Lai :  — 

I've  just  come  in  from  one  of  our  strenuous 
route  marches  —  45  minutes,  it  lasts,  and  con- 
sists of  a  stroll  to  the  nearest  Park,  a  rest,  and 
then  a  stroll  home.  Yesterday  was  a  glorious 
warm  autumn  day.  In  the  morning,  the  boy  I 
came  in  with  borrowed  from  some  one  he  knew 
here  the  large  sum  of  ten  shillings,  five  of  which 
he  gave  to  me  —  and  as  we  are  allowed  out  from 
ten  to  twelve,  as  well  as  from  two  to  seven,  we 
decided  to  take  the  motor  'bus  into  town.  In 
the  afternoon  we  went  with  a  bunch  of  Aus- 
tralians to  a  roller  rink  —  I  didn't  skate  —  I 
don't  feel  up  to  it  yet,  anyway  —  and  later  went 
to  the  main  Y.M.  a  very  large  building  and  had 
tea  —  getting  in  about  six  in  the  evening.  We 
played  tennis  —  some  of  the  sisters  came  to 
play,  and  also  we  had  our  pictures  took  on  the 
lawn.  Later,  supper;  salad,  bread  and  butter, 
and  cocoa,  a  bit  of  a  read  at  my  book,  then  bed 
at  nine.  Can  you  wonder  that  when  I  wake  in 
my  little  bed,  with  the  nice  linen  sheets,  and 
get  into  lovely  clean  underwear,  I  feel  altogether 
happy  in  the  thoughts  of  another  ripping  day 
ahead.  .  .  . 

If  only  I  could  get  mail  from  the  Battn. ;  but 
there  is  nothing  as  yet.  Surely,  they  can't  all  be 
Casualties.     There   are   rumours   that   we   have 


A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY  283 

been  taken  away  from  Lens.  Though  we  have 
suffered  particular  Hell  there,  I  don't  suppose  a 
man  but  will  be  sore  if  that  happens.  We  have 
done  all  the  dirty  work,  even  Vimy  was  part  of 
it,  as  he  shelled  us  from  there  —  and  it  is  up  to 
us  to  take  the  town;  it  is  our  right.  Though  I 
guess  it's  easy  for  me  to  talk  —  here.  That's 
no  doubt  how  the  Generals  and  Brigadiers  talk, 
who  do  their  fighting  on  the  plans  from  safety. 
Maybe,  if  I  was  up  there,  I  wouldn't  care  who 
took  the  place  as  long  as  I  was  out.  It  wasn't 
fighting  up  there,  it  was  just  plain  murder.  You 
walked  on  dead  bodies  to  keep  out  of  the  mud. 

What  a  war !  We  take  half  a  dozen  shell 
holes  on  the  West  and  lose  one  hundred  miles 
in  the  East.  Last  night  there  was  another  air 
raid.  They  got  clean  away,  and  inflicted  heavy 
casualties,  I  see.  Can  you  blame  Germany  for 
doping  it  out  that  she  is  winning  ? 

Peace  —  I  think  —  is  further  away  than  it 
was  last  year !  If  America  doesn't  do  something 
startling  next  year  —  and  I  doubt  if  she  will 
have  had  time  —  I  see  yet  another  year  of  war 
without  peace  at  the  end  of  it. 

7  September,  '17. 
V.A.D.  Hospital, 

England. 
But    K.,    poor    old  K.     What    can    we   say? 
Somehow  I  think  K.  had  a  hunch.     He  was  so 


284       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

different  from  his  usual  optimistic  self;  he  was 
so  worried  not  getting  his  leave;  he  wanted  to 
get  married.  But  fancy  the  rotten  luck!  A 
fortune  in  a  gold  mine  in  B.C.,  and  a  really 
lovely  girl !     Now,  all  gone  —  for  what  ? 

I  remember  the  last  words  I  spoke  to  him. 
We  stood,  he  and  F.  and  I,  "on  the  top."  Loos 
was  half  a  mile  behind  us  —  Lens  in  front.  All 
was  desolation;  it  was  evening.  We  spoke  of 
the  coming  scrap.  K.  thought  it  was  going  to 
be  easy;  but  it  wasn't  the  real  K.  who  said 
it.  We  stood  there  quite  a  time.  There  was 
no  need  to  dodge  the  shells;  they  were  all 
dropping  just  behind  us.  He  joked  me  about  my 
"bunged-up"  eyes;  it  was  after  I  was  gassed, 
and  before  it  had  begun  to  work  on  me.  Poor 
K. !  I'll  call  on  his  people,  when  I  go  on  leave ; 
they  are  in  London.  He  told  me  if  anything 
happened  to  write  to  his  girl.  How  can  I  do 
that?     I  couldn't.     His  mother  must  do  it. 

10  September,  '17. 
V.A.D.  Hospital, 
England. 
My  dearest  Lai :  — 

I'm  all  alone  practically,  and  it's  a  lovely  day. 
There  were  two  "engagements"  for  this  after- 
noon —  a  party  to  go  to  the  pictures,  and  a  tea 
afterwards.  Also  a  tennis  party  at  some  big 
house  near   and   a   "feed."     I  had   my   choice, 


A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY  285 

but  couldn't  go  to  either  which  is  most  decidedly 
rotten  luck.  Old  Fritzie's  gas  hasn't  altogether 
left  me  yet,  and  decides  to  come  back  every  now 
and  then.  Last  night  it  bothered  me  a  bit  and 
again  today.  I  went  for  a  'bus  ride  to  B.  to 
take  a  note  to  the  General  Military  Hosp.  for 
the  Commandant  and  have  just  got  back.  See! 
I'm  glad  I'm  not  there  still.  Just  a  sight  of  it, 
and  its  military  system,  its  surly  orderly  room 
sergeants  —  cease-fire  bums  who  have  never  seen 
France  —  got  my  goat  at  once.  How  I'll  ever 
cotton  on  to  things  military  again,  after  this 
glorious  freedom,  I  dunno',  though  I  guess  it  will 
have  to  be  done. 

Tomorrow  the  big  exodus  of  Canucks  takes 
place.  Believe  me  they  are  a  sore  bunch,  and 
they  have  my  sympathy.  I'd  feel  just  awful  if 
I  was  one  of  them.  Out  there,  it  amounts  to 
being  under  sentence  of  death,  and  it's  foolish  to 
figure  it  any  other  way.  Again  your  mental 
state  is  abnormal;  you  don't  think  in  any  way 
like  the  people  who  live  in  safety.  Every  time 
I  have  ever  written  you,  I  have  been  thinking  I 
should  not  be  able  to  finish  the  letter.  No 
wonder  it  takes  your  mental  breath  away,  so  to 
speak,  to  turn  into  a  place  like  this,  knowing 
you  can  go  to  sleep  and  think  of  tomorrow. 
Strange  too  how  quickly  you  fall  back  to  your 
proper  state ;  already  it  jars  to  sit  next  to  a  man 
who  eats  with  his  knife,  and  reaches  in  front  of 


286       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

you.  Out  there,  you  are  just  an  animal.  To 
even  think  there's  a  chance  of  continuing  existence 
when  you  can  live,  and  plan,  and  anticipate, 
staggers  you.  Yet  —  I  am  thinking  there's  a 
chance. 

I  am  still  without  any  news  from  France  —  I 
sent  my  address  to  our  Battalion  Orderly  Room 
and  also  to  B.  Co.  Clerk.  I  thought  he  would 
forward  mail  on ;  but  none  has  come.  I  wonder 
what  they  do  with  it.  If  F.  had  been  alright, 
I  feel  sure  he  would  have  got  mail  through  some- 
how. F.  would  take  over  my  job :  kit,  supplies, 
etc.  I  guess  I'll  know  soon  now.  I  wrote 
asking  the  Canadian  Red  Cross  to  get  my  mail; 
it  appears  they  do  that  for  you.  I  expect  some, 
every  mail.  We  have  more  than  one  a  day  here, 
but  none  comes. 

I  never  cease  to  marvel  at  my  amazing  luck. 
Also  to  be  thankful  in  a  truly  humble  spirit  for  it. 
Good-bye,  Dearie, 

Your  boy,  R.  A.  L. 


A  NICE  SOFT  BLIGHTY  287 


L'Envoi 

Here  is  something  that  goes  right  to  the  point, 
eh? 

It's  exactly  what  I  am  trying  to  be  and  do. 

A  Trench  Litany 

God  of  Sabaoth,  I  but  ask 

Humbly  to  bear  whate'er  befalls  — 

The  dreary,  uninviting  task, 

The  sight  that  sickens  and  appals, 

Ear-rack  of  never-silent  guns, 

Burden  of  bars  vicissitude, 

Losses  of  comrades  —  cherished  ones  — 

To  suffer  all  with  fortitude. 


If  fate  voiIHisafe  me  safe  return 
To  firesides  of  my  fond  desire, 
Grant  me  the  grace  never  to  spurn 
The  lessons  learned  in  lines  of  fire  — 
Chivalry,  love,  and  noble  aims, 
Knowledge  of  things  undreamed  within. 
And  this  —  that  Private  What's-his-Name'j 
The  same  as  I  beneath  the  skin. 


288       A  CANADIAN  STRETCHER  BEARER 

Or  if  the  hollow  eyes  of  Death 
Should  cast  commanding  gaze  on  me, 
Bidding  me  yield  the  shibboleth 
And  plumb  the  black,  unf  athomed  sea  — 
I  pray  that  I  at  last  may  fall 
In  paths  where  Honour  ever  strayed, 
And  answer  the  unwished-for  Call 
Unquestioning  and  unafraid. 
Au  revoir 
Your  Boy  and  your  Pal, 

R.  A.  L. 


EPILOGUE 


'Darby  the  Yank"  fights  vrith  the  Tanks 


A  YANKEE  IN  THE 
TRENCHES 


By   CORPORAL  R.  DERBY  HOLMES 

OF    BOSTON 

Late  of  the  22d  London  Battalion  of  the  Queen  s  Royal  West 
Surrey  Regiment 

12mo.     Illustrated.     $1.35  net 


The  actual  life  of  a  soldier  on  the  Western  front  in  billets, 
in  the  trenches,  over  the  top,  across  no-man's  land  and  in 
hand-to-hand  conflicts  with  the  Germans  is  here  vividly  re- 
lated by  a  gallant  young  American  who  fought  in  the  English 
army,  until,  twice  wounded,  he  was  invalided  home.  Cor- 
poral Holmes  fought  in  the  battles  of  the  Somme  where  he 
witnessed  the  first  of  the  tanks  in  action.  He  participated  in 
thrilling  charges  and  he  only  ceased  "strafing  the  Hun"  when 
wounded  and  sent  back  to  "Blighty."  He  tells  his  many  and 
varied  experiences  in  trench  and  billets  in  a  straightforward 
manner — experiences  just  like  those  our  United  States  troops 
are  undergoing  in  France.  This  is  not  a  book  that  depicts 
mainly  the  horrors  of  war,  for  the  lighter  side  is  adequately 
presented  by  this  soldier  boy.  It  is  a  narrative  to  stir  the 
heart  and  kindle  the  imagination  of  the  reader. 


LITTLE,  BROWN  &  CO.,  Publishers 

34  Beacon  Street,  Boston 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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